A Corrupted Summer
by cjjs
Summary: What had happened to the first victims in the Arklay mountains? In the summer of 1998, the RPD struggle to explain the rash of violent deaths happening in their backyard. Meanwhile, more people are going missing. Strong language, gore. Slight AU.
1. The Wind Cries Mary

_The woods will never tell what sleeps beneath the trees._

_Or what's buried beneath a rock, or hiding in the leaves._

_'Cause roadkill has its seasons, just like anything._

_It's possums in the autumn, and it's farm cats in the spring._

* * *

**June 15 1998 Gordon's Creek**

The sun winked a heliograph off the water. A red and white bobber plopped in. It broke the glassy sheen into a rippling bulls' eye and spurred the dormant whirligigs into action. The undulations tapered, and once again the water was mirroring the cloudless sky in shades of earth.

The man at the other end of the fishing line sat on his crumpled lumberjack shirt. He twitched the cheap fishing pole from one hand to the other. The afternoon sunshine hammered on his bare shoulders, continuing to bake his skin a darker shade of shoeleather brown. He tilted his head to the sky, closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

The smell: a slight musk coming off the water. The sounds of creaking trees, of cicadas calling to each other in their alien language, the feel of the cork handle in his calloused hands and the sun-baked mud under his makeshift cushion, these things were the few constants in his life, and he cherished them like very little else.

And he was taken back thirty years, to when he was a young boy pulling perch and sunfish out of the brown water: his father at his side, stoic and broad-shouldered, smoking an unfiltered cigarette and reading a dog-eared paperback.

A slight breeze kicked up, pleasantly cooling the sweat on his shoulder blades. Somewhere behind him, Maddy trudged graceless through the bracken.

The pond, fed by Gordon's Creek, hidden in the Arklay Forest: a secret Eden, whose location was known only by a surveyor for Linn-Gordon Mining and his four sons.

Darius Connor opened his eyes. He was crying. It happened a lot lately. A branch cracked a few feet away. He heard Maddy giggle as she approached him, He blinked the few tears away.

The pond, known by his four sons and one granddaughter.

"Hey, Kiddo." He swung an arm out and caught her at the waist, drew her closer.

"I was trying to sneak up on you," she explained, smiling.

He smiled and laid the rod aside -it was too hot, the fish weren't biting- and looked up at the skinny girl with mousy-brown hair and glasses. Her gingham top was flecked with dead leaves and burrs.

Clumsy, like her old man.

"Well, you'll have to try harder than that." He looked down and blinked away another tear. "Your Pop's clever like a fox." He tickled her sides with his other hand.

She giggled and slipped out of his arms, brushing the leaves out of her hair.

"You want to try some more fishing?" He gestured at the other fishing pole.

She looked at the pole reluctantly. He knew that her heart wasn't in it. Maybe if the fish were biting she would have been more willing to give it a try.

Her mother hated fishing.

"Maybe in a little while," she said as she unscrewed the cap on a bottled water. "Could I borrow the binoculars?"

Her language skills were very advanced for an eight year-old. At least, that's what her teacher had written in her last report card. If she could only get those Math grades up to par.

"Of course." He brushed a bluebottle fly off his arm. "They're in the backpack. Just don't wander too far."

"How far is too far?" She took a single sip of water and replaced the cap.

So much like her old man.

"If you can't see me, then it's too far."

"Okay," She wandered back toward the overstuffed rucksack and began sorting through the various outdoors impedimenta.

He watched her for a few moments.

At his side, the fishing rod came alive. He snatched it up and yanked, but there was no resistance on the line: too late. He sighed and reeled the hook in.

Perch were not an easy fish to set properly. They nibbled away at the bait, ate around the hook like little surgeons. He cast a withering glare at the severed nub that had once been an earthworm on the end of the lure.

"Bastard!" He thumbed the lid off the old margarine container full of mud. He felt his anger swelling inside, but swallowed it back down and took his frustration out on another worm, repeatedly skewering it on the barbed hook.

"Try eating that one." He flung the tackle into the water.

He looked back, toward the girl as she blundered forward with the binoculars up to her small face.

_-Don't do it today, it's too nice a day-_

He slumped his shoulders at the thought.

A month ago Maddy's mother had asked for a separation. They hadn't told their daughter yet.

It hadn't come as much a surprise to Darius; he and his soon to be ex-wife had never really loved each other. He met Vicky Larson at a night club shortly before his deployment to Kuwait. When he returned home, she waiting for him, with their daughter swaddled in a fleece blanket. Maddy was so small, with tiny pale-blue eyes.

And so Darius left the Army and took a job as a process man for Umbrella Chemicals. He and Vicky pooled what money they had and took a mortgage on a ramshackle Victorian. She thought the place looked creepy, but he and his brothers had done a decent job fixing it up over the summer. It would never be a mansion, but it was no longer the worst house in the neighbourhood.

And they tried like Hell to make it work.

He couldn't fault his wife for being unhappy, for being unwilling to spend her life with a man she could barely tolerate. Darius had no intention of sleeping on the Murphy bed in his billiards room for any longer that he had to either.

_"I'm tired of faking this._" she told him in a calm voice._ "I deserve to be happy, and so do you. I'm tired of having to tiptoe behind your back… and don't tell me that you haven't been sleeping around as well."_

He lied and told her that he hadn't.

So that was that, lawyers were consulted, contracts, and custody papers signed. Everything was very civil, free of the stereotypical pettiness associated with divorce. He found an affordable two bedroom apartment downtown and bought some used furniture at a consignment store.

There was only one thing left to do: the hardest part.

More tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Fifteen days from now, he would be seeing his girl every other week.

He could hear a ton of branches twisting and snapping. Maddy's clothes were going to be ruined; Vicky would freak.

"Don't go too far, sweetie." he called absently.

He bent forward and gazed at his reflected image in the murky water. He was a bit soft around the waistline, craggy faced, but still handsome. Vicky was right, he did deserve to be happy. What he feared was that his happiness would come at the expense of his daughter's.

Maddy's thin scream pulled him out of his introspection with more speed and violence than he could yank a perch out of the pond.

He dropped the rod and leapt to his feet, scanned the treeline. She screamed again, to his right, and about fifty yards in. Her thin frightened scream transformed into a painful shriek that could barely be registered by a human ear

That scream spurred Darius into action. He charged forward, caught his own shadow on the hardpack: a small, powerfully built man cannonballing through the deadfall.

He zeroed-in on his daughter's cries, could see movement ahead. "Hold on, Sweetie, I'm coming!"

Branches whipped at his bare arms and chest; he didn't feel them. His heart was pounding double-time. His legs pushed him forward with impressive speed.

He could see the Maddy's cotton candy pink sneakers kicking, a large brown shape on top of her: too tall and skinny to be an animal. A few more steps forward and it was clear to him that a man was holding his girl down, was attacking her.

A fucking pedo.

Something switched in his mind. He was no longer Darius Connor: father, husband, and cooling tower systems operator. He was once again PFC Connor. One of his squad mates was in trouble and needed backup. The enemy needed to be eliminated.

With soldier's efficiency, he darted a hand into his back pocket, found his Buck knife, flicked out the four-inch blade. He had taken a life during the Gulf War; he had no doubt he could do it again.

_-This guy's dead!-_

"_GET OFF OF HER!" _he shouted at the attacker: a thin man dressed in a filthy brown sport coat and corduroy pants. The guy smelled worse than fish guts left in the hot sun. He was probably some psychotic drifter. It didn't matter much to Darius. He would be worm food soon enough.

The man didn't budge, didn't pay attention to his warning. Maddy had her arms to her face and was shrieking. Was that blood he saw on her?

Darius launched himself at the man, tackling him. They both tumbled off the girl, the derelict ending up on top of him.

It was then that he realized there was something wrong with this attacker. From an early age he wrestled and fought with his brothers. He had taken hand to hand training in the Army. It never felt like this. This guy felt wrong: cold, and hard, like the rubber on a tire. And that smell…

The drifter's hair fell away from his face; for the first time Darius had a good look at the man, and it froze him solid.

During the war, he and his platoon had come across an Iraqi T-62 that was hit by an A-10's cannon. The commander and radio man were blasted from the wreckage, laying in the sun for days, staring at the sky with hollow eye sockets and wizened faces.

This man in the woods looked exactly like those corpses, except he was alive.

Wasn't he?

He, or perhaps it, unhinged it's jaw and bit down on Darius's forearm. He didn't register the pain. PFC Connor was engaging the enemy, whatever his enemy was.

He still had the Buck knife in his other hand and began stabbing at the diseased man on top of him, aiming for the chest.

Again and again, he thrust the knife forward, each time he heard a slight _thuck _as the blade hit his ribcage. Strangely, his attacker didn't react to the fact that he was being gutted, and Darius was too busy to realize that the man wasn't bleeding_._

Body blows weren't doing anything; the man was still clamped to Darius' arm. He balled his hand into a fist around the knife handle and punched the man between his shrivelled eyes with every bit of strength he had. The force peeled a flap of skin off the man's forehead, and he was driven back with a mouthful of flesh from Darius' forearm.

At his side Maddy was still screaming.

"GO BACK TO THE TRUCK!" he twisted and hollered at her. "RUN!"

There was a massive pinch at the side of his neck.

_-Oh Hell-_

Before he had time to react, the living corpse had clamped his jaws somewhere in the neighbourhood of his carotid artery and ripped it open. Darius was still too wired on adrenaline to feel much pain, but as he felt the hot thick blood spilling down his side, he knew he didn't have much time.

He had to kill it first. Had to make Maddy safe.

"RUN!" He drove the blade's entire length into the man's throat.

He was feeling light headed; things were slowing down.

"RUN!" Maddy was still at his side, shouting for him.

Another good hit with the Buck knife, upward under the chin. The handle slipped from his weakening grip.

"….Run…" He shoved Maddy; she stumbled away from him.

_-Good!-_

Things were starting to darken at the edges of his vision, like the final cut scene in an old movie. He grabbed the man, who was biting into him again. It didn't matter now.

There was a faint blur as Maddy bolted down the cut line, to his Ranger.

"…run…"


	2. Money

**June 15 1998 Raccoon City**

An increasingly strong wind tugged at Mountain City Realty's red canvas awning. Steel-grey clouds were churning out of the west, slowly blocking out larger sections of the evening sky.

An old-fashioned bell tinkled as the office's door swung open, out strolled a man in semi-casual attire, a natty tweed coat draped over his square shoulders, a leather briefcase in one hand. Above him, an American flag snapped crisply in the stiff breeze yet not a single lock of his liberally Brylcremed hair was disturbed.

The man, well fed but darkly handsome, locked up, and swaggered over to the late-model Jeep parked at the curb. He whistled tunelessly as he tossed his briefcase into the back seat and then swung his bulk behind the steering wheel. The engine hummed to life and the boxy vehicle pulled away, quickly accelerating down Warren Avenue.

The radio was on, playing Fleetwood Mac. He sang along with Stevie Nicks and drummed his large hands on the dashboard. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror; his lips parted in a wide grin, revealing a mouthfull of square, white teeth.

_-The face of success.- _he thought, and cranked the volume.

Two blocks away, he slowed and craned his neck toward a nicely-stacked young woman, sitting on a bus stop bench. There was an ad screen-printed on the backrest.

**Benjamin Connor**

**Mountain City Realty**

"**Welcome Home"**

The girl blocked off the picture printed next the navy-blue script; she noticed his attention and rolled her eyes at him. He promptly reset his eyes to the forward position with a smirk.

"Sit on my face, and tell me that you love me…" he sang, and chuckled.

He made a right turn onto Larch Street, dove past the Raccoon Police Department precinct: a huge, red-brick and limestone structure that had once been the derelict Northern Pacific train station. Like much of this neighbourhood, it had changed completely since his childhood. Gone were the soot and rust speckled warehouses, the sprawling switchyard and garages, all demolished, rezoned and developed.

He cranked down his window and waved at a cop he had sold a bungalow to, that spring. The officer waved in return and slipped into his cruiser.

_-Vince Danielson, nice guy. I should drop off a calendar for him-_

Yes, Umbrella had made filled many a realtor's pocket in those bonanza years following their decision to base all North American operations in Raccoon City. It pained him that he had been too young to partake in the initial development, though there was still a great deal of money to be made from Umbrella. This afternoon's transaction proved that, if nothing else.

Ben Connor grinned again. Gerhard Dressler, an executive from the company headquarters in Geneva, was one signature away from owning his very own tiny piece of America. More importantly, Benjamin Thomas Connor, was one signature away from his six percent commission on the three-hundred and fifteen thousand dollar Dutch colonial he had listed two weeks prior. All he needed was for Ruth Hodges' son to accept Dressler's offer and sign on the proverbial dotted line, and that was going to be taken care of in a few minutes. The real estate gods had smiled upon him once again.

The Jeep glided past row after row of modest, older houses. The Trask district had once been home to Raccoon City's working class: miners and factory workers who were given the land downwind of the smelters to build their homes. Dust and poison at work, smoke and poison at home; as the saying went. The smelters had been demolished, leaving only the vast tailings fields, and only one foundry remained. Ben counted his lucky stars that the winds were blowing Western Castings' noxious fumes away from town the day he had shown Herr Dressler 1203 Beech Street.

The cell phone in his cup holder began ringing. Ben reached over and flicked it open in a fluid motion.

"Ben Connor," he said with a grin. He had heard once that people could tell if you were smiling when you spoke to them on the telephone. It sounded like bullshit to him, but he wasn't going to dismiss it altogether.

"Ben, it's Vicky," the woman on the other line blurted.

"Hey Vicky, how have you-"

"Have you seen Darius and Maddy today?" she interrupted.

A single line creased his brow.

"Not today, no, " He swung the Jeep onto Mill Avenue without signalling. "Sorry, should I…"

"I need you to do me a favour, Ben."

A second line appeared above the first.

"Darius took Maddy fishing somewhere up in the hills today," she continued. "to some lake his dad used to take him. He said they'd be home for supper; they're still not back yet."

It was quarter to eight.

"What would you-" he began.

"I need you to go up there and see if there's anything wrong."

_-What?-_ The smile disappeared from his face; he wasn't sure if Vicky could tell. Was she serious? That mudhole was at least an hour away. He began racking his mind for an excuse.

"Ben?"

"I'm here." he said in an uncharacteristically flat voice. After a lengthy pause. "I'm a bit tied up right now. Why don't you give Sam a call?"

"He's in Texas right now; he won't be back until Tuesday."

_-Just great-_

"Ummm…"

_-Think, think, think-_

"Ben, you're the _only _person who knows where they are. It's not like Darius to be late like this. I'd look for them myself. But I'd have no idea where to go."

_-Come on, the guy's only an hour and a half late-_

Another, a smaller, but much more reasonable voice asked.

_-When has Darry ever been late?-_

"Ben?"

_-Fuck off!-"_

"Yeah?"

"I _need _you to do this." Her voice had an unnatural, sharp edge to it. It was her tone that finally drove him into retreat.

_-Ah, hell. Fine!-_

He rolled through a stop sign and turned left onto Beech Street.

"All right, I've just got to make a quick stop, and then I'll go for a drive." he said, attempting to sound magnanimous, and mostly succeeding.

"Keep me posted, all right. He's never done anything like this before."

"Sure,"

"Ben?"

_-You've won. Shut up already-_

"Yeah?"

"Thanks,"

"Sure," He flicked the phone shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

A minute later, the Jeep pulled up the cobblestone driveway attached to 1203 Beech Street. Dressler hadn't bothered to ask about the rust-coloured stains on the stone or on the home's roof. He slid out of the Jeep's leather interior and wrinkled his nose at the acidic reek of molten steel, courtesy of Western Castings' blast furnaces. God, was he ever lucky that there had been a wind out of the south that day.

_-Maybe a drive in the hills will be a nice way to celebrate-_


	3. Run Like Hell

**June 15 1998 Sherritt's Bridge**

The day's heat had finally disappeared with the last vestiges of blue sky. The smudge coloured clouds continued their relentless march out of the west and crowded the fiery sun as it drew down to the horizon, painting the evening sky a violently magnificent range of oranges and purples.

The thunderheads glowed steadily with sheet-lightning, and the wind gusted down the valley, whipping dust and grit into the faces of the sparse pedestrian traffic. Over the wind, thunder boomed, like artillery. The wildlife, far more attuned to nature than their homo-sapien brethren, had disappeared into their nests and burrows, prepared to wait out the oncoming storm.

The weather meshed perfectly with Ben Connor's state of mind as he barrelled across the old iron bridge. He tilted his head to the storm clouds, ran a distracted hand through his hair, gave his head an angry shake, and jerked his fist back down, punching the steering wheel. The horn gave a frightened _beep_, and the SUV jerked over to the shoulder.

"Goddamn it !" He grabbed the wheel with both hands; the Jeep straightened out and continued gaining speed.

_-Goddamn, you Darry. God damn that greedy asshole Hodges, God damn that prissy kraut Dressler-_

Ben's hands tightened on the wheel, he tromped on the gas pedal and blew the doors off a sun faded Volkswagen Rabbit, driven by a bent old man with coke-bottle glasses.

"And Goddamn _you_, you old fart bag." he grunted, as the compact car disappeared in his side view mirror.

He grabbed at his cell phone and hit redial. After four rings, a recorded message cut in.

**The cellular customer you are calling is out of our service area or unable to answer your call. Please hang up, and try your call again. This is a recording.**

"Goddamn it!" He flicked the phone shut, tossing it onto the passenger seat.

Ben fumed silently, his meeting with Ruth Hodges son hadn't ended as expected. Not only had Bert Hodges turned down Dressler's offer, (seven thousand dollars lower than listing price.) but minutes later, Joan Solomon from Century 21 had intercepted him, and delivered an offer for the full amount. Naturally, Hodges accepted the offer.

_-His parents probably bought the place for fifteen thousand bucks, that blood sucker is squeezing Mommy's estate for every penny he can get, prick!-_

Gerhard Dressler did have twenty-four hours to make a counter offer, but by the time Ben had managed to get a hold of Hodges, the Umbrella exec had boarded a flight back to Switzerland, and would be spending at least the next ten hours in a pressurized tube somewhere over the Atlantic. Depending on how jetlagged Herr Dressler was, there was a good chance he could sleep through his window of opportunity.

Ben punched the steering wheel, taking no satisfaction in it.

_-I should be back at the office, tracking down Dressler's home and office numbers. Instead I get to play rescue ranger for my idiot brother and that brat kid of his-_

An old Mustang with a flat-black shaker hood was crowding his back bumper, waiting for a straight patch of highway to pass. Ben swung the Jeep's passenger tires onto the shoulder, pelting the other car's hood and windshield with gravel.

"Back off, buddy." The car in his mirror piled on the brakes hard enough to do a nose-stand.

Ben's phone started ringing. He reached over to answer it and veered back onto the shoulder. The Mustang kept its distance.

_-This had better be that fucking Nazi, Dressler-_

"Ben Connor," There would be no trace of a smile on his face.

"It's Vicky again."

He punched the steering wheel.

"I'm halfway there."

"and _I'm _just checking." she parroted his tone.

_-Fuck you, bitch. I_ _already told you that I was going-_

"I said I'd call as soon as I got there." He managed to smooth the sharp edge off of his voice.

"All right, sorry."

"Yeah," He snapped the phone shut and resisted the urge to throw it against the windshield.

_-And that is why, I'm never getting married-_

The Mustang dropped a gear and roared past. The passenger stuck her head out the window. Her short black hair whipped crazily in the wind. She blew a kiss at him, grinned, and then signed off with the middle finger. He smiled back; she was his kind of girl.

Ten minutes later, he crossed Gordon's Creek Bridge and turned left down a poorly maintained cut-line. The dying light revealed a pair of fresh tire ruts that led further into the green mass of trees. Overhead, the sky danced and writhed as the lightning arced behind the cloud cover.

The pleasant aroma of mulched leaves and pine trees wafted in through the air vents. The old, familiar fragrance helped quelch his temper; his hands slackened on the sweat slick steering wheel.

The Jeep bumped past a large metal sign with a warning painted in tall red block-letters.

**Danger!**

**Unstable shoulders.**

**Authorized Access only.**

The ubiquitous Umbrella logo was printed under the warning. Five yards away, a syphilitic looking wooden sign stood, nearly completely obscured by young trees. The print was outright illegible, though Ben still knew what had once what had once been written there, in lettering virtually identical to the Umbrella notice.

**Private property.**

**No Trespassing**

**$500 fine, jail time.**

**Linn-Gordon Mining.**

As a young boy, the stern reprimand had terrified him. He would spend his time at the pond with his head on a pivot, waiting for the moment a grim faced federal agent, who would look exactly like Robert Stack from "The Untouchables" would emerge from the leafy cover, flanked by his Tommy gun wielding gangbusters. Agent Ness and his Untouchables would then promptly arrest him and his father for the high crime of **fishing on Linn-Gordon property**. They would be marched away in manacles and loaded into a paddy-wagon, doomed to spend their days sequestered within a grimy prison's walls. He never did voice his concern to his humourless father.

A slight smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, how long had it been since he had last gone fishing here? Fifteen years? Time was a slippery thing, could he already be thirty-six years old?

The Jeep bounced out of the ruts, into a deep puddle. A wall of mud sprayed up and blanketed the windshield and hood. Ben cursed and thumbed on the wipers, his transitory good cheer rushed away like the clouds above him.

The SUV rolled ahead blindly as the wipers smeared the thick gumbo around the glass. A heavy tree branch screeched along the passenger side, sounding very much like the oft referred-to fingernails on blackboard.

_-God damn you Darry, if there is a single scratch on this thing, there's going to be hell to pay-_

He picked up his cell phone, glanced at the liquid crystal display, and cursed again. There was no reception. Even if Dressler had tried to call right now it would be pointless.

"Goddamn it!" he shouted.

As if on queue, raindrops the size of quarters began plopping down on his hood.

_-My clothes are going to get ruined, you'll get a bill for that too, you dumbass-_

He rounded a long corner, and the rear reflectors on his older brother's pickup truck shone back at him like a demon's half-lidded eyes. Ben slipped his foot off the accelerator and began coasting to a stop. His vehicle squeaked to a halt behind the Ranger, and Ben Connor's first hint of genuine concern took seed. He hadn't expected to find anyone here. Until this point he had been convinced that his brother had decided to go somewhere else after fishing. Maybe he had taken his daughter to that burger joint in Latham that served those amazing shoestring fries. It could be that he had simply failed to mention that fact to his other-half. It was very much out of character for Darius Connor to do such a thing though. To Ben's knowledge, the only spontaneous thing his older brother had ever done, had made him a father, and ended his military career.

His petulant mood gave way to slight bewilderment and his tanned brow creased once more.

_-They're still here, what gives?-_

He blinked though the mud-smeared glass, at his brother's battered truck. The rain had petered out for the moment, like the opening shot to a long protracted battle. None of this made sense, was Darius camping out at the pond?

_-In a freaking hurricane?-_

Ben reached over, flipped open his glove compartment, and rummaged through the expired registration cards and bank statements, searching for his pen-light. The wind howled through the door's weather-stripping and the Jeep rocked sideways.

His thick fingers gripped the small flashlight, and he popped the driver's door open. A strong gust of wind ripped the door out of his hands and pinned it against the hinge-stops.

The air was thick and heavy with rain, stifling and difficult to breathe; he could taste the electricity. It was so different from the Jeep's plush, climate-controlled cocoon.

He stepped out of his vehicle and flicked the light on. It was nearly full dark, the last vestiges of daylight staining the trees to the west a burnt orange. A streak of lightning shot out and illuminated the three slabs of granite his father had placed at the cut-line's entrance ages ago.

He cast the light down the game trail, and felt his hair flip and twist in the wind. The pomade had finally conceded defeat.

He started down the trail, bent over as the storm fired another volley of oversized rain drops. The tails of his tweed coat twisted behind him. Gerhard Dressler and 1203 Beech Street were shoved to the fringes of his though process.

_-This doesn't make any sense at all-_

He trudged along, peering though squinted eyes as rain pelted his face. His loafers squished through wet leaves and mud. The shoes were expensive and well looked after, though, at the moment, he was unaffected by the state of his footwear.

"Darry? he shouted over the storm. "Maddy?"

He brushed past an immature poplar sapling and stepped into the clearing. Connor's pond, as he had once proudly branded it, was dead ahead; the water broken and peaked by the wind, reflecting the electric sky. It looked like a television jammed between stations.

He could see his bother's tackle box and Army rucksack plopped together near the shore.

"Guys?"

Ben spun around in the rain, casting the pitiful light in all directions. He paced the small clearing, now fully drenched; his worry was quickly blooming into panic.

He stalked the tree line, and then stopped at the obvious path that had been cut through the grass and deadfall.

"Hey, where are you guys?" A thunderclap nearly drowned him out. He called out again and picked his way through the trees.

Lightning strobed regularly; he could make out an indistinct white shape ahead.

He brushed tree limbs aside, making his way through the woods with an eager haste. A springy pine bough, which must have been bent earlier in the day sprang back at him, raking across his right eye.

-Ow! Fuck!-

His entire face felt as if it were on fire. He brought a hand up to the scratches and rubbed furiously at them; the cold rain water felt like millions of tiny needles. He lurched forward, one hand at his face, the other holding the light.

The white shape gained detail, became recognizable. His hands fell to his sides as he gaped at his older brother's mangled remains.

"Darry?…Oh God!…DARRY?"

Darius Connor lay before him, paper-white with blue lips and cheeks. His eyes stared up at his younger brother, casting silent judgement through the small puddles that had collected in their sockets. His body was torn in places, the arms and upper torso ripped apart, showing stringy pink muscle tissue. Lightning streaked overhead, the dirty blade of his father's Buck knife, which lay at his side, glinted dully.

Ben dropped to his knees, the thunder drowning out his blubbering cries. He grabbed his brother and shook him violently.

"Oh Darry, good god, I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner, please be okay…oh God…oh God…"

How could this be happening? this was his brother, the same Darius Connor who he had ridden double on handlebars with. The same Darius who had broken Calvin Visser's nose after he had shoved Sam into traffic. Darius the defender, quiet, fearless, loyal. How could he have ended like this?

He suddenly dropped the corpse, at last realizing just how severely mauled his brother's body was. Ben shot back to his feet and took a step back. Another bar of lightning struck nearby, the thunder splitting his ears.

_-Gotta get back to the Jeep, call the police-_

"Oh God!" He took a step back. "Oh…"

Something crunched under his left foot. He stepped off and swung the pen light down, illuminating a fragmented set of plastic framed eyeglasses.

_-Maddy,-_

_-Get to the Jeep!-_ his mind screamed.

_-She's still out there, I've got to find her- _Another part countered.

He was torn, his mind frenetically trying to decide if he was going to scour the area for his missing niece, or retreat and call for help. Connor apparently decided to accomplish both tasks simultaneously, as he blundered through the trees, hollering the girl's name as he cast the pen light into the shadows.

_-Oh, God, something got Darry. A bear, a bear ate Darry!-_

Ben splashed along the game trail, the storm seemed to be getting worse exponentially. The forest had come alive and was swaying in the gales of wind, the rain and lightning wreaking havoc on his senses.

He had made his way back to the pond, every time he shut his eyes, the gruesome image of his brother's maimed body greeted him. How many years would that sight stay with him?

"MADDY, IT'S YOUR UNCLE!" Rainwater was filling his mouth.

Ben peered ahead, a figure, vacillating, wavering in the rain, was approaching him.

"Huh?… Who?"

_-Too tall to be Maddy-_

"Hey!" he called out, "you've gotta help me."

The mystery man continued his drunken trudge toward him, feet channelling through the soupy mud, head bent down, away from the storm.

Ben broke into a quick jog, shortening the distance between himself and the stranger. As he drew closer, he could see that the person must have been hurt as well, as he was quite obviously limping.

_-Who the hell is this?-_

"Hey!…Hey buddy?" Ben was ten feet away. He flashed the light up to the mysterious visitor. Raindrops caught in the shaft of light seemed to hang suspended in time.

"Dar…my brother is dead, his girl…I can't find his girl. You need to…"

His words died in his throat. Another bolt of lightning arced crazily above them, illuminating the man's jigsaw-puzzle face. In the fraction of a second's worth of perfect clarity Ben could see that the man's throat had been cut clean through, could see the flesh hanging loose like some grotesque ascot, the torn windpipe sputtering rain water.

_-Holy Hell!-_

The man, once more obscured by darkness, loped forward.

"G-get away from me!" He back-pedalled, not knowing what was wrong with the man, simply following the gut-feeling, which was screaming _RUN!_

The stranger sped up and lunged forward. Ben was a big man, but he was also fast and agile. He scooted sideways, using the other man's momentum to throw him to the ground. As the walking corpse fell forward it twisted at the waist with unexpected coordination and wrapped both arms around Ben's leg.

"Get away!" He swung his other leg out, delivering a powerful kick.

Unfazed, the mangled wreck clawed at Ben's thigh, drawing its dark mouth closer. Ben knew what was coming, and he now understood what had happened to his brother.

He screamed again, backing away quickly as he dragged the other man along. A large, withered tree branch passed overhead. Instinctively, he snatched at it, and yanked with all his weight. The tree was long dead, a frail skeleton waiting to be toppled over by a strong wind. The limb cracked and Ben ended up holding a heavy five foot chunk, nearly as thick as his arm.

"RAAAAGH!" He swung the bludgeon downward with all two-hundred and forty pounds of his weight behind it.

The branch exploded into tinder-sized chunks as it connected with the other man's face. The creature's head jerked violently to the right, and a large section of skin sloughed off and flopped away like a discarded handkerchief.

Ben continued his attack, swinging the rapidly disintegrating maul repeatedly in a bezerker rage he had not felt since his days in college football. Rainwater slicked off the exposed sections of the pale man's skull.

"DIE!" he shouted over and over. He would soon be beating the other man with his bare hands.

_-Kill it, kill it, kill it!…- _

His mind was wholly occupied with destroying the man from the woods. Remarkably, the creature still had one hand clutched to Connor's calf. The other arm, dislocated at the shoulder, flopped on one of his mud-caked loafers.

The rain beat down on him. The howling wind and thunder eliminated all other auditory input.

Ben Connor did not sense another shape draw close, behind him. He didn't hear the hungry moan, less than a foot behind his ear.

He barely noticed the frail arm wrap around his thick stomach.

His war cry cranked up an octave as the explosive hammerblow of pain tore down the right side of his body.

His knees buckled and his feet jerked. As he fell, he caught a final glimpse of Connor's pond.

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, June 16 1998**

**Raccoon City still in the dark after Storm of the Century.**

**George Shultz**

The severe thunderstorm that rolled through Wheeler County, Saturday night is estimated to have caused millions of dollars in property damage.

In the early morning, hundreds of homes and businesses in the north-eastern section of Raccoon City are without power, and fire crews are still attempting to control the blaze at an abandoned warehouse in Northlands Industrial. A spokesman for…


	4. A Common Disaster

**June 16 1998 Raccoon City**

Irene Lindstrom gazed out of the passenger side window, staring at the rangy hills, opaque in the early morning mist. For a moment the scenery alongside the turnpike was identical to the Northern Wyoming of her childhood.

In that perfect moment she could smell the fertilized soil, the hay and alfalfa. She could see her father's crooked smile, feel the hardwood flooring of the old farmhouse creak under her bare feet.

She recalled a single image from her early childhood -the default image of her parents- her father, ruddy-faced, smiling, standing with one arm around his wife's waist, her many siblings and cousins darting past them. She could hear country music, the clink of glasses, a chorus of rough voices cheering "Skaal!"

As she stared out to the horizon she nearly wept, homesick, yearning for the long spent days of her youth.

And then, the radio at her left knee jerked her back to the present day. In a heartbeat she was back, remembering who she was and why she left.

She remembered all too clearly why she left.

_"Adam Four-Five, this is dispatch Oak. What is your location? Copy,"_ the Oak Street precinct dispatcher spoke.

Officer Lindstrom unsnapped the mike from its clip and keyed the transmit button. "Adam Four-Five, I am code-six for coffee on Crescent Road, exit three south, copy."

_"Code-six, copy. Rendezvous with Lieutenant Brennan at Oak PD once you are rolling again."_

"Ten-four, are we emergency?" She eyed the door to the Big Sky Travel Plaza for her partner.

_"Negative on emergency, Four-Five. Code-two is fine."_

The door swung open, and Joe began trotting back to the cruiser with a pair of Styrofoam cups in his hands. His head was bent away from the drizzle.

"Copy that, dispatch Oak. We're en-route." She reset the mike and buckled up.

Joe swung the driver's door open and climbed in, careful not to upset the hot beverages.

"Here you are." He handed her one of the cups. "The coffee machine was busted, so I got us hot cocoa instead. You don't mind, do you?"

Irene frowned, peeled off the lid and peered dubiously at the steaming drink, which was unmistakably black coffee. Joe was grinning his foxy smile.

"Do you ever get tired of being annoying?" She turned to her right and stifled a smirk of her own.

"It might happen some day." He shook the rainwater off his forage cap. "Don't lose hope."

"Yeah, well I won't hold my breath. Oak PD just called in. The LT wants us to meet him code-two."

"Oh yeah?" He threw the Crown Victoria into gear and rolled out onto Crescent Road. "They say what about?"

Irene suppressed another grin. "They mentioned something about fender damage on unit Four-Two."

Joe looked over at her, and his dark, expressive eyes flashed panic. He backed into a streetlight the week before and hadn't reported the damage to motor pool. She knew that he was nervous about being fingered for it.

"You serious?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Actually dispatch didn't say why."

He let out a theatrically large breath of air. "I don't like you anymore, Lindstrom, you used to be a nice girl."

Irene laughed and sipped her coffee: black with one sugar. She had him well trained.

For over a decade, the RPD had been implementing a mentorship program, where recruits were to be paired up with senior members. The program was intended to be a form of apprenticeship for rookie cops, and though the RPD brass would never admit to such, it was also an effective way to keep senior beat cops up to date on proper procedure.

Irene hadn't been thrilled about her partner at first. At forty-eight, Joe was exactly twice her age. He was married with four teenage children. She had no idea what they would have in common, though as time went by she came to realize that her misgivings were unfounded. Officer Gutierrez was a professional cop who showed her the ropes with a nearly saintly level of patience for the negative aspects of the job. Sure he ate his food loudly and picked his nose when he thought she wasn't watching, but aside from those two, relatively insignificant, grievances she enjoyed working with him. There were far worse choices for partners out there.

She shuddered, and imagined spending a twelve hour graveyard shift with Lou Mancini or Jerry Doyle.

The cruiser rolled along, headed toward the city's labyrinthine downtown. Irene half listened to an anecdote Joe kept forgetting she had already heard and watched Raccoon City roll past her. Unused to city living, it had taken her a fair amount of adjustment to live in such a large center. That having been said, she had come to accept it as home: as a place worth protecting. She had friends, played on the RPD softball team, and of course there was Forest, her guy friend.

She smiled at the thought the man she was dating, and not for the first time found it a bit strange that she had escaped the desolate confines of Baker Creek, Wyoming in search of a new life, only to end up seeing a man who belonged at the Brookside Hotel's pool hall.

Forest Speyer, native son of Pincher Arkansas, looked every bit the redneck. He favoured western-cut jeans, sleeveless plaid shirts and shaved as infrequently as possible. These were all forgivable. His hair though -that long, greasy mess which tangled around his shoulders- was a continuous cause of frustration. Her insistence that he get a hair cut was inevitably met with the same flippant response.

At least he agreed to get rid of that horrible beard he had when they met.

It was surprising to her that the RPD tolerated his ragamuffin appearance. Forest's talent as a sharpshooter and tracker must have carried more weight than she suspected.

"Hey, I almost forgot." Joe said. "I can't make it for the Tuesday game, do you think Forrest Gump can sub in for me again?"

Irene cringed for Forest's sake; he hated the nickname and vowed that he was going to shoot the next person who shouted "Run Forrest…run!" at him.

But of course she knew he would do no such thing. He in fact had a bit of an aversion to violence, an enigmatic quirk for a man in his profession.

"Probably not," she answered. "He's up at Moon Lake with the rest of the STARS team, looking for those drowned canoeists."

Joe nodded. "All right, I might get Juan to play for me then."

"He's got a better arm than his Dad."

Joe turned; his eyes narrowed in mock anger, "Get out of the car."

Adam Four-Five chugged down Oak street. They passed Officers Ford and Tremmain -a senior/rookie pair that was having trouble getting along- they were headed away from the station in unit Three-Nine. Most of the RPD was directing traffic in the Northland Industrial Park. It looked like that was where those two were headed as well.

_-Have fun in the rain, boys-_

A minute later, they arrived at the Raccoon Police Department's headquarters, informally named "The Brass Palace" due to the fact that it was home to all the RPD's administration and investigative services. A small reserve of beat cops were tucked away in the main floor of the west wing, but they were vastly outnumbered by higher ranks and constantly on edge, yeaning for the comfortable number of regular officers stationed out of the Larch Street precinct.

Joe swung the big car off Oak Street and parked next to another cruiser. They quickly emptied the patrol car, locked up and scuttled across the rain-washed cobblestone courtyard, to the shelter of the precinct's lobby.

Irene's long legs carried her to the entrance first, while Joe, nearly a head shorter than her six foot one frame, hustled to keep up. She stopped on the other side to brush the rain off her leather patrol jacket and shake the folds out of her starched slacks. She gave Joe a brief nod.

"Well, let's see what Brendo has up for us." Joe said.

With Joe in the lead now, they stomped though the comparatively small patrol office and weaved their way through the tangle of desks and office chairs to the LT's private office.

"Hey, Loo," Joe said.

Lieutenant Brennan sat behind his desk, fully engrossed in the paperwork which occupied much of his time on duty.

"That didn't take you guys long." He didn't bother looking up.

"Traffic's pretty light." Joe answered. "A lot of people are still trying to get the trees off their cars."

Brennan snorted, signed whatever form he was parsing, and set it aside.

"You guys know about the missing person's case that came through last night." It was not a question.

They both nodded.

"Meyer brought it up during briefing." Irene answered.

"That was nice of him." He put down his pen and leaned back. The leather chair creaked under his bulk. "That fucking act of God kept us from performing an aerial last night, but Dooley's been airborne since dawn. He got a good visual of a Ford Ranger and a Jeep Grand Cherokee matching the RP's description. Both vehicles are parked on an old mine road about three clicks southwest of Jordan Road, no sign of missing persons."

Brennan spun around in his chair and wheeled himself over to the fax machine. He pulled a sheet out of the hopper and pushed it across his desk to them.

"Can you figure this out?" he asked, brushing a hand through his arctic-white brush cut.

Joe traced a finger along the surveyors map. "Yeah, I used to cruise these roads back in the day."

"You and every other puke in Raccoon City," Brennan grunted. "I'd normally pass this over to the STARS, but both teams are code-six, and most of the stripes are in Northlands sorting out that fuck up. You two are to take unit One-Five and find out what the hell those missing persons are up to. There's a pond about a hundred yards south of the vehicles, and the missing persons were supposed to be fishing, so check it out. Air-One is still up there. Dooley is on channel 13, and I'll be listening in. Report directly to me."

Brennan lifted himself up; his chair sighed as if in relief. He fished through the pockets of his patrol jacket, pulled out a pair of keys, and tossed them across the room. The yellow tag fluttered like a tiny banner.

"The RP is in the foyer if you need any additional information." He sat back down and pushed over a bunch of papers that were clipped together. "Here's a copy of the statement. Questions?"

She and Joe shook their heads in unison.

"All right, off you go. Missus Connor is waiting.

As they turned to leave, Brennan called out. "Hey, Gut, one last thing,"

Joe turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Watch out for street lights."

Joe did a remarkable job keeping his face blank. "I have no idea what you're talking about, boss."

"I bet, get the fuck out of here." Brennan almost smiled, it was a rarity for the man.

"You got it, Loo."

Once they were out of eyesight, Joe wiped his head and sighed loudly. Irene chuckled and jabbed him in the ribs.

"You're a bad liar." she said, then added. "Should we question the Reporting Person?" She pointed at the squad room window, toward the small blonde woman on the other side of the glass, who looked tense enough to spontaneously combust at any moment.

Joe glanced over at the obviously distressed woman. He met her eyes for a moment and then quickly looked away, back to the statement.

"That's a negative," he said, now in professional mode. "Statement looks good, map looks good, Air-One is still on scene. I think we have all that we need."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she and Joe crossed Sherritt's Bridge in a black and white Ford Expedition with SUPERVISOR printed on the front fenders and 515 painted on the roof and rear hatch.

"The seats are more comfortable in the PCs." Joe shifted in his chair.

Irene didn't bother responding as she was busy scanning through Victoria Connor's statement. It was peculiar, the Connor father and daughter disappeared first, then hours later the Connor brother disappeared as well. It looked like a possible multiple drowning. The girl falls in the water, and the father goes in after her. The brother shows up later, sees them, and heads in too. It actually happened more often than one would think.

Whatever it was, it wouldn't be pretty.

"What do you think happened up there Joe?" she asked.

"Dunno," he said in a bland voice. "I bet that Geezer is going to have a busy day, though."

Irene didn't want to agree with her partner, but past experiences had made her helpless to do otherwise. There was no doubt in her mind that their Medical Examiner would be receiving a call.

She took her mind off the subject, turned the radio to channel thirteen and hailed Dooley in the RPD chopper. Guided by the map, and their airborne compatriot they easily found the cut line.

The road was a disaster, whipped into a homogenous putty by the heavy rain. Changing vehicles turned out to be a very good idea; a patrol car would have sunk like a rock. Even with four-wheel drive, Joe was having trouble navigating up the road. The big SUV was taking up every inch of cut-line, slewing violently from one shoulder to the other as Joe frantically spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction. A quarter-mile down the road and every surface of the truck was caked with a thick layer of mud, the windshield wipers were barely able to keep up.

"Brendo's going to flip his lid when he sees how dirty his ride is." he said, nearly breathless.

"Less talking, more driving please." Irene counted her blessings that she wasn't prone to motion sickness and kept one hand pressed against the dashboard.

After a hectic trip down the cut-line, RPD unit One-Five came to a stop behind Ben Connor's Jeep. Both abandoned vehicles were partially buried under a screen of leaves and fallen branches, looking like improvised camouflage.

They stepped out, into the mud and rain. Every tree was a washed-out grey green pastel, beautiful but ethereal. It was nearly impossible to believe that civilization waited twenty miles away from this sub-tropical rainforest.

Joe flipped the lapels on his coat and sifted though the silty mud toward the game-trail. "There's a path over here."

They started down the path. The mist and verdant foliage was affecting her depth-perception, and the humidity played with the acoustics, muting their voices. Everything had effected a hollow dreamlike nature.

Irene was blazing trail, scanning the eldritch surroundings intently. She was oddly reminded of Alice going further down the rabbit hole. She broke into the clearing, a muddy wash strewn with debris. Her slacks, completely drenched, were plastered to her thighs, and her hair had partially escaped from under her cap.

Fifty yards away, near the opposite treeline, there was a brown organic looking heap. She squinted her eyes and could clearly see a white hand hooked into a claw.

"Oh great."

She started forward. "We've got a body." Behind her, Joe hurried ahead.

A moment later, Irene was standing over Ben Connor's remains, her lips parted in a perfect O. Having been raised on a cattle ranch, watching her father efficiently butcher livestock, she had become inured to death at an early age. As a police officer, she had witnessed the aftermath of countless gruesome deaths. Suicides, stabbings, fatal traffic accidents, they were all common fare for her. This body however, was a horror unto itself. She had seen what a coyote could do to a yearling calf, but had yet to witness that form of savagery transferred to a human being.

"Madre de Dios," Joe's voice was a near whisper. "What a mess."

_-Understatement- _

Irene bent down to examine the dead body, white and washed out, as if it was fading out of existence.

"Don't touch him." Joe said. "This guy's DOA, and at least a suspicious death. I don't wanna fuck up the chain of evidence."

Chiding herself, she straightened and backed up a step, letting her analytical cop brain kick in. The pathology for a coyote attack was all wrong. A bear, or a big cat, maybe?

"I was expecting marshmallows." Joe said after a minute of introspective silence.

He and other RPD referred to drowning victims as marshmallows due to their propensity to bloat and bleach out in the water. She wasn't fond of using disparaging terms for DOAs, but knew that it was a coping mechanism to deal with the nastiness of premature death. If a cop was to take everything he witnessed to heart, it would take very little time and he would either burn-out, or end up suck starting his service pistol.

Irene wiped at her forehead. "Me too,"

"All right, we're not going any further. Get back to the truck, let them know what we've got. I'll stay here." Joe unholstered his Beretta.

Irene nodded a quick affirmative, drew her own weapon, and traced her way back to the SUV, going over in her mind what she was going to say.

_-Use the ten codes, everybody has police scanners these days. What was the code for Coroner Required? It's an eleven code, eleven forty-four, death report is eleven forty-six-_

She stomped back to Brennan's supervisor truck and swung into the driver's side. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. The rain running down her face made it look as if she was crying, but her eyes were still clear-blue, alert and focused, cop's eyes.

She grabbed the mike with a steady hand.

"Lincoln Oak PD this is Adam One-Five, copy."

_"Adam One-Five, go ahead."_

Just as Brennan's baritone voice filled the cab, a glint of light caught her eye, twinkling along the side of the abandoned Ranger.

"We have an eleven forty-four on scene, possible Henry." She spoke in a clear voice, using as much jargon as possible to confuse any eavesdroppers. The less John-Q knew about certain things the better.

She partially exited the truck and squinted at the Ranger. The dashboard was littered with pebbled glass from the smashed passenger side window; they hadn't noticed it earlier.

_"Possible Henry, copy."_ Brennan replied, Henry was RPD code for homicide. _"What is your eleven forty-six count."_

Irene let the microphone drop and stepped out of the SUV. Taking a few steps forward, she shielded her eyes from the rain and could see a tiny crumpled figure further up the cut-line. Her eyes adjusted, and she could see blanched skin and a pair of bright pink sneakers.

_-Oh shit, there's the daughter-_

_"Adam One-Five, state your eleven forty-six count, over."_

She stepped back into the truck and wiped the rain off her face. "Adam One-Five. I've got two confirmed eleven forty-sixes, over."

_"Copy that, Adam Five-One-Five. Geezer and Aaron are en route."_

_-Aaron, that's Detective Silverman-_

She knew that she needed to check the kid out, but for a moment she just sat, listening to the hiss of the rain. She pulled off her forage cap, closed her eyes and smoothed her hair back in place. God, she hated kid DOAs.

_-This wasn't a bear attack either, don't fool yourself- _

**Front Page Raccoon Herald June 17 1998**

**Raccoon City still cleaning up after massive storm.**

**George Shultz**

Additional precipitation has hampered efforts to clean up after the severe weather Saturday evening. A malfunctioning sewer backup valve at the Williams avenue…

**Page A2 Raccoon Herald June 17 1998**

**Brothers, daughter dead after suspected animal attack.**

**Ben Bertolucci**

Early reports from the Raccoon City Coroner's office indicate that the bodies of Darius Connor 38, Benjamin Connor 36, and Madison Connor 8, all of Raccoon City, declared missing June 15, were recovered on Umbrella property near the derelict Southdale Nickel mine. RPD Media Liaison…

**Author's Note: A special thanks to Artistic Masochist for letting me borrow Officer Tremmain. If you haven't read his fic "Regrets" yet, be sure to check it out as well.**


	5. Blow At High Dough

**June 19 1998 Jordan Road**

Gil Lachance wasn't worried. He was concerned, he was stressed, but had he yet reach full scale worry? He didn't think so. He'd found worse trouble in his thirty-four years spent on this planet, and he always managed to squeak by unscathed, either through cunning or plain dumb luck.

Someone once told him that lucky people tended to stay lucky. He genuinely hoped that was the case, as Lady Luck had always been on his side. Hell, _La chance _was French for luck, how could he possibly be unlucky?

The rain picked up, pebbling the Chevy Celebrity's windshield. Gil had only been driving it for half an hour and was still unsure of the layout for all the controls. He fumbled for the wiper switch. They flicked to life on their lowest setting. The windshield cleared, and he returned his eyes to the winding county road that swam out of the murk.

A bead of sweat rolled onto his forehead. He found the power window buttons. Both front windows lowered a few inches and, in time, he felt a fraction more relaxed.

No, he wasn't worried. There was no reason to worry yet. He had a car with a full tank of gas; there was a good song on the radio, and the men looking for him were probably two hundred miles away.

He blinked and scratched his beard. The cool moist, air helped revitalize him. He'd been on the run nearly fifteen hours, efficiently putting as much distance as possible between himself and the hornet's nest he had stirred up in Seattle.

He shuddered with a residual adrenaline rush, reliving the morning's events: the crashing glass, sirens, shouting and gunshots, the steady drone of a helicopter, barely audible over the pounding pulse in his ears.

_-Typical, Gil_ - His brother's voice, fetched from some dark recess of his mind, taunted him. _-You always want more, and look at where it gets you. You think you'd learn after what happened with the Talbot brothers-_

There was no escaping it. He knew that his all encompassing need for more would either be his secret of success, or his undoing. Fate had yet to decide which one it would be. Henri may have been content living in a cockroach infested one-bedroom, selling quarter ounces of low grade hydroponic to McGill students, but Robert Lachance's youngest son expected more out of life. Robert Lachance's youngest son had the sack to go for the big money.

-_Let that fat shit rot in his hole.- _He flipped through radio channels. _-Henri'll die a poor man-_

The Chevy's clock showed two minutes to three. He didn't think there would be any news updates this late at night; the last one he had tuned into spoke of the shootout and state-wide manhunt in Washington, and little else. Of course, he'd still been in Washington then. They shouldn't be looking this far east, with any luck.

How many others had managed to escape? He saw Greg get tackled by a DEA guy and that black kid in the Chicago Bulls jersey get shot at least three times. There couldn't have been many. This came as a relief to him, as other than his partners, the only person to trace him back to the shootout at Speedy's Autobody was a Seattle PD officer, who was currently cooling his heels in the Coroner's fridge.

Gil sighed, remembering the twisted snarl of pain on the pig's face as the bullet ripped through him. He took no pleasure in killing, and had no doubt that the young pig, who looked like an overgrown Opie from The Andy Griffith Show, would soon be haunting many of his fitful dreams. He may had found murder abhorrent, but that kid was dressed in a Seattle PD uniform. He had been holding a loaded pistol, and stood between Gil and freedom, and no life was worth more than Gilbert Lachance's freedom.

It was five past the hour, no news update, which might have been a good thing. The DJ had just racked a Van Halen song.

_-Running With the Devil, I'll take his company-_

He smiled and rolled the windows down full, letting the mist bead onto his arm and face.

No, there was no reason to worry. By sunrise he should be well into Idaho. He could ditch this car, grab something with in-state plates and keep heading east, maybe find a pair of scissors and a razor in case the heat had a picture out.

He rolled the window up and nosed the car into a wide curve with both sides hemmed in with jack pine. County road 128 could have easily been any two-lane highway in rural Quebec, his ultimate destination. Crossing the border would be risky, but hopefully he would not look out of place to some Northern Maine Customs Officer.

_-Wide smile, speak a bit of the old Francais. It will be a peace of cake. Just watch out for Claude Talbot once you're across. I'll bet he hasn't forgotten what you did to Jacques-_

Gil sped past a narrow ribbon of yellow police tape, strung along a side road. He furrowed his eyebrows; police tape belonged in a city. He knew that he was coming up on a place called Raccoon City, a stupid name if he ever heard one, but assumed that it was another shitsplat town like the last three he had passed through. Small towns had their own challenges: nosy townsfolk, pigs with too much time on their hands, but back roads were the way to go until the heat was off him. He hadn't really planned on passing through any major centres, though it shouldn't be a problem this late at night.

The Chevy Celebrity glided through another series of lazy curves. He let off on the gas to make up for the steepening grade, no sense speeding, and fumbled for his pack of cigarettes. Nicotine was a distant second to what he really wanted, a half gram of good quality blow.

He shook his head. Fifteen hours ago he had been in the same room as thirty kilograms of the stuff.

He popped an Export-A "Green Death" between his cracked-feeling lips and felt for the cigarette lighter.

_-Thirty keys of good grade white, all gone. I should have known better then to get mixed up with those wetbacks-_

"C'est la vie." he mumbled, his hands still in search of the car's electric lighter.

_-Where is that god damned thing?-_

Gil flipped on the map light and scanned the dash for the lighter. He found it and pressed it in. His mouth watered. He was not a man used to being denied his vices.

He glanced up, and his lower jaw dropped. The cigarette swung into his beard with the filter stuck to his wet lower lip.

There was a man standing directly in front of the car.

__"Ah, Calice!"

Electric fire rocketed through his body, causing nearly every muscle to clench in a violent spasm. His teeth slammed together, his heart triple-pounded in his chest with a fierceness to rival the most intense of cocaine rushes.

Time slowed to a near stop. Gil watched fascinated, detached, as the accident played-out in front of him

He felt his fingers grip into the soft steering wheel, his hands jerk it ninety degrees to the left.

He saw the idiot in front of him, some drunk judging by the stupefied expression on his rain drenched face, glance over his slumped shoulders at the onrushing sedan.

He heard the brakes skid and shudder as they locked up on the wet-washed asphalt, he could feel the pedal bend under the exertion.

He had time to think. _Not fast enough, I'm going to hit him._ before the Chevy Celebrity did just that, striking the man with the right fender, hurling him up and over the roof.

The sickeningly low crunch the car made as flesh met sheet metal seemed to reset time, or possibly speed it up ever so slightly. Gil stared through the cracked windshield realizing in dismay that his car was still locked up, barrelling off the road at what seemed like the speed of sound.

He slipped his foot off the brake pedal, back onto the gas, and spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction. His body slammed against the driver's-door as he overcorrected. The back tires cut loose on the spit-shined highway and the car slewed at a right angle to the road.

Gil was still staring ahead, trying to steer the car straight, when the driver's-side tires dug into the gravel shoulder. The engine screamed to it's redline as the passenger tires lifted off the road and spun without resistance.

The car flipped.

He was hammered against the door.

It occurred to him that he wasn't belted in.

The trees spun a wild green blur on the other side of the breaking glass.

_-This is going to hurt-_


	6. Locked In The Trunk Of A Car

_August 1 1974 Montreal _

_The old hag dragged the two brothers a mile down Rue Saint-Sulpise to the Notre-Dame Cathedral, squawking at them incessantly. She would pause every so often to give either, or in some cases, both boys' ear a twist, and then lug them along further down the busy sidewalk._

_Henri, the dumber and softer of the two, blubbered ceaselessly. As a result, he had received the bulk of her furor. _

"…_Grand mere, please…" he would begin, and then screech as the bitch gave his ear another twist. At least Gil had the sense to suffer in shamed silence. The old bat had caught them, they had whipped her into a righteous fury, and were going to suffer by her hand._

_She battered her way past a gaggle of tourists, using her ruby faced grandchildren as soft bludgeons. A young priest with a widow's peak and double-chin stepped forward to intercept. His pouchy eyes navigated from the two boys, to her rosary beads, from the small gold crucifix around her neck, to the harsh face above it._

"_Allo Madame."_

"_Pere." She genuflected and pinched their collars, brushing past the puzzled cleric, force marching the boys into the dimly lit sanctuary. They were tugged past row after row of ornate wooden pews; above them, from every window, stained-glass saints cast judgement with their luminescent eyes._

_They halted at the shrine to the Virgin Mary, who stood enormous over the trio. The bitch forced them to their knees, and even Henri was smart enough to shut up and make the sign of the cross._

_She released them at last, in one hand her rosary, the other a crumpled wad of ones, twos and fives._

_At the sight of the money Gil felt hot angry tears wet his cheeks. That was THEIR money, THEY had earned it. The stupid old hag had the gall to call them thieves; she was stealing from them_

_Henri choked back a sob as she stuffed the lot of it into the slot and started counting out matches. Fifty cents a match, one candle per match, one prayer per candle._

_The old woman creaked down to her knees, and signed the cross._

"_You two, pray with me."_

_To disobey would be suicide. Gil began mechanically droning Hail Marys, shamefaced, watching sixty two candles flicker in their blue glass votives around the Blessed Mother's feet. Henri stuttered along with the woman._

"…_Holy Mary, mother of God…"_

_His face, red, probably bruised from the smacks he had received, was slick with tears. It radiated with a heat to match the small inferno they had purchased in exchange for their salvation. _

"…_.Pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death…"_

_His face hurt so bad; the old bitch would pay._

**June 19 1998 Jordan Road**

His face hurt. His whole body hurt, but it was his face that protested loudest. It was hot, slick, torture to make any type of expression at all. He cracked open one eye; the other was apparently swollen shut and refused do to anything but hurt like hell. Above him, a blurry crescent moon doubled, tripled, quadrupled, then doubled again.

_-Oh Jesus! Oh shit, this hurts-_

Gil knew better then to try to speak. His lower molars no longer lined up with the top, and his tongue felt like a swollen chunk of meat. He must have broken his jaw, or maybe dislocated it. Taking half breaths out of his imperfect mouth, he unfolded one of his arms and slowly snaked it up to his lacerated face.

_-Okay good, chin is still there, lips are there, Nose is broken…Oh shit this HURTS!-_

His face, swollen, bleeding profusely, and alarmingly numb on the left side, was more or less intact. Carefully, he turned his swimming head from side to side; it made a peculiar clicking sound but he still had a decent range of motion.

One arm, the other arm. Both legs were still attached and working, although his left knee was sending spasms of pain up into his pelvis. Gingerly he lifted himself up and got his bearings. His vision was off and his neck kept twitching and clicking, but he wasn't paralyzed. That was good.

He could see the Celebrity's single functioning tail light a few yards away. The car had landed right side up, though it looked more like a ball of aluminium foil. Had he taken a trip through the windshield? It would explain his face.

A liquid sounding laugh bubbled out of him. He had been thrown from a barrel-rolling car, and though he had rearranged his features and broken a few ribs, he had survived. The car hadn't crushed him, and if the wreck had pitched him any further, his brains would have been painted all over the thick tree trunk, less than a foot from his head.

_-Lucky guy. Oh fuck this hurts! I think I'd rather be dead-_

Ever so gently, he got to his feet, trying to maintain his balance with a bad knee and messed up gyros. His inner ear must be screwy, neither ear was bleeding though, a good sign. He took very deliberate steps, favouring his left knee, and made his way to the car. The battered Chevy's front end was crushed into a pile of rocks, like a snuffed out cigarette. Surprisingly the engine was still running, testament to General Motors' ruggedness. He groped over to the driver's compartment and fumbled for the handle. It seemed to be moving on it's own; he hoped that he didn't have any serious head injuries. After more effort than necessary he gave up and reached through the shattered window, killing the engine and remaining lights.

The Celebrity rested at the bottom of a steep drop off, eight feet or so below County Road 128. With the lights off it should be invisible to traffic, at least until daybreak. Using the car to steady himself, he made his way over to the passenger side. The windshield was still more or less in one piece, meaning he had been ejected from one of the side windows. How he had not brained himself on one of the door pillars, or been torn in half as the car rolled, remained a mystery to him.

_- Just be glad you're a La Chance. Yeah lucky me, my head feels like a fucking beach-ball-_

He pawed at the glove compartment; his gun had survived the experience. He had two bullets left, but with any luck he would only need to use one of them.

_-Okay, time for a plan. Go up to the highway, flag down a car. Get rid of the driver and start putting some miles on. Hide the car and lay low all day, try to heal up a bit. OW! Careful with the ribs stupid! There's no way I'll make it to Quebec like this. Maybe I should cross into Saskatchewan? I wonder if Vince is still in Regina, I could shack up with him for a while-_

It wasn't much of a plan, he knew that a lot could go wrong. He also wasn't pleased that it would mean at least one more dead body, but he needed a set of wheels and couldn't think of a way he could let the chump live and still make a clean break.

He tucked the knockoff .32 PPK into his back pocket and began picking his way up the embankment to the highway. His head throbbed; it kept tipping forward on his damaged neck muscles, and his broken ribs made every laboured breath a harrowing experience. At least his vision had cleared slightly.

_-You should have stayed in Vancouver- _Henri chided, the smug bastard.

It was raining again by the time he had made it to the road. The cold water further aggravated the long gashes in his scalp. He turned his mangled features up to the night sky. The moon had disappeared behind a curtain of clouds and it was darker that dark. How many hours of night did he have left? He would have to be on the other side of the city by daybreak. Hopefully someone would show soon. He doubted that he could stand for much longer.

Gil tucked his T-shirt behind the gun's handle and draped his jacket's tails over top. The .32 had bad range and low power. It was ideal for concealment and little else. He would have to get very close to make the shot count. There would be blood, he would be close enough to watch the person die. He would have one more dead body to add to the pile. He really sickened himself, at what he had become. Gil Lachance, the drug dealer, the thief, the murderer_. _He should just give up. Washington didn't have the death penalty; the cops would fix his face up. No more running, no more killing.

_-Just the rest of your life in a chicken coop- _Henri said. -_Do you want that?-_

No he didn't want that.

Something grabbed at his attention: a groan, low and pained and muted. It came from further down the road.

_-The guy!-_

How could he have forgotten about the drunk he had hit? He heard the groan again, and the snap of a dead tree branch. The guy was still alive, injured but alive.

_-For the time being- _

Gil loped off in the direction the noise was coming from. Another muffled groan. Closer now.

_-Stupid shit. How did he survive that?-_

He felt a tinge of anger. It was this guy's fault that he was in this mess. What kind of idiot walks down the middle of an unlit highway in the dead of the night? He pulled the pistol out and chambered a round. He would be doing the human race a favour by getting rid of him. That groan again, louder and drawn out, in the tree line a bit. Gil stumbled off the road, into a swampy patch of tall grass and ferns, reminiscent of the stuff Marines had to slog through in every Vietnam War movie ever filmed. He could hear a tangle of branches and grass rustling. There was no way the guy was walking; both of his legs must be broken, at least.

_-Geez, listen to that guy howl -_

It was far too dark to see anything; why did it always get darkest just before sunrise? The moaning was nearly constant now. Gil had the pistol out, swaying on his bad leg and squishing through the mud. The guy didn't sound far away; he at least deserved to be put out of his misery.

"Eh buddy, where are you?" His mouth worked irregularly. Proper pronunciation was next to impossible.

He received another loud groan in response, a few feet away. He took two steps forward, and then the tall grass rustled, in a direction opposite to the groaning, behind him.

"Wha?"

He spun toward the noise, feeling his heartbeat accelerate. What was going on?

_-I should get out of here-_

His instincts had never lied to him before; now was no time for second guessing. He sidestepped, over, and could see movement in the grass at his feet. Someone else moaned behind him.

_-What?- _He spun the gun around and took another three paces to the right. He felt light-headed, confused. There couldn't be three people here.

Strong hands wrapped around his right leg and pulled. Gil lost his balance and tumbled into the bog, cracking his ribs on an unseen tree stump. A dark shape emerged from the murk, a coal silhouette against the sooty night sky.

His flailed chest made deep breaths impossible; he was nearly hyperventilating. He swung his pistol out, squeezed off a wild shot, and then he felt teeth dig into the meaty part of his calf. Somehow, he found enough breath to scream.

**Front Page. Seattle Times June 19 1998**

**2 Police, 1 DEA agent dead after drug raid, shootout.**

**Dwight Fischer**

A state-wide manhunt continues after a DEA raid in the Industrial District resulted in a shootout, claiming the lives of Officers Matthew O'Reilly 22 , Alan Garcia 41, both of the Seattle Police Department, and Agent Frank Ruiz 34 of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Washington State Police, working along with County Sherriff's departments are conducting check stops along major thoroughfares and circulating photographs of suspects Carlos Ramirez, Eduardo Escobar, Gilbert Lachance...

**Author's Note:**** Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, you guys rock! Be sure to let me know if this is getting repetitive. I assure you, I do have a plot outline! I don't just plan on killing off random OC's (as much fun as it is sometimes) **


	7. Hasn't Hit Me Yet

**June 19 1998 Jordan Road**

No two people reacted to bad news the same way. It didn't matter what the psychology textbooks explained; to efficiently categorize the coping process seemed to be cosmically impossible. You expected one thing when you dropped the bomb on someone, and occasionally they would behave in a way somewhat similar to your expectations. Yet just as often, the strongest person would collapse like a long abandoned barn under heavy snow, and the most fragile wisp of a soul was barely moved at all.

Victoria Connor, for all her nerves and frazzled hair, took the news surprisingly well. It might have helped that it was Joe who told her. Despite his bluster, the man could be more eloquent then a preacher when it came to speaking to a victim's family. And yet when it was all over he could walk away and crack a bad joke just out of their earshot. Go figure.

Would things have been different for her mother if Joe had been the one to inform her that her youngest daughter was dead?

"Lindstrom."

One hand crept up to the long scar on her cheek. It was invisible under a thick spackle of concealer, but there nonetheless.

_-Would Dad have survived his grief?-_

"Hey, Earth to Lindstrom!"

She dropped the hand to her lap and turned to her partner. "Yeah?"

"I asked you if you heard about Tremmain."

A blank stare, "Tremmain?"

"Ford's partner," Joe explained.

Irene shook her head.

"Irons suspended him."

She arched her eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Findlay from the rat pack hauled him upstairs yesterday morning. I hear he's gone for six months."

"Wow," she said, uninterested.

"He must have done something real thick. The union wouldn't even go up to bat for him."

"Hmmm,"

Joe spun in his seat to face her. His thick, expressive eyebrows were furrowed with concern. "What gives, Lindstrom? You haven't said a thing all morning." A sliver of a smile formed. "Did Forrest Gump keep you up all night?"

She laughed in spite of herself. Why did she like Joe Gutierrez again? Her partner had guessed right. She had been up most of the night, though Forest Speyer had nothing to do with it.

"I think I'm coming down with a cold." It was half truth; Joe could spot her lies from across a stadium.

"Tell me about it." He cast a withering glare at the grey clouds that stretched out to infinity. "All this cold and rain is no good for a person. I had the chills all night after our trip out in the woods."

Irene had no intention of discussing what had happened that first morning of their day shift. "This rain is supposed to last until Friday morning." she said, changing the subject back to the weather, doubtlessly the most innocuous of topics.

"Good weather for the big game on Saturday." Joe said nodding. "We're gonna tear the Hose Heads a new one."

She smiled in anticipation and nodded her assent. The RPD and the Raccoon Fire Department's rivalry was the stuff of local legend. That contention was especially widespread in the various sports leagues in which they participated. Softball was no different, and Irene relished putting those arrogant Neanderthals in their place.

The smile disappeared from her face as she glanced down at the crumpled Chevy Celebrity that lay at the bottom of the ditch beside their cruiser. What had started as a routine Eleven Twenty-Four, investigating an abandoned vehicle, had quickly escalated into a single vehicle rollover involving a stolen car. Said vehicle had an interior covered in blood, four obliterated side windows, and no bodies.

So here they sat, waiting for the cavalry to arrive, backup officers to direct traffic, the Traffic Accident Reconstruction officer, EMTs, the ident unit, and of course, Grady's tow truck.

The blood bothered her, it could have been from a broken nose, and maybe the perps had fled the scene. Though, it could also mean that someone was wandering around the woods with their brains leaking out of their ears. She didn't know and was anxious to find out.

She took her eyes away from the sedan and let them trail up the rain-washed highway. She could just barely make out the Gordon's Creek Bridge. She wondered if the police tape they had strung across the cut line was still there. Detective Silverman had finished his investigation of the scene yesterday, and the bodies were still in Geezer Thomas's cooler, waiting for their autopsies.

She sighed and wiped at the mist on the windshield.

"Thinking about it isn't going to bring them back, Irene." Joe said in an unusually soft voice.

The only time Irene's partner called her by her first name was when she had either done something very right, or very wrong. Had she been so transparent with her thoughts?

_-Don't answer. Just pretend like you never heard him-_

"We've got company." he said, mercifully curtailing their conversation.

Irene checked out the side-view mirror. A Traffic Services patrol car had drawn up close behind their cruiser. The driver turned on his warning lights, and the entire car shifted several inches on its springs as its lone occupant exited.

_-Oh boy, here we go- _She thought to herself upon realizing who the day shift TAR was.

A shadow fell across the two cops as Sergeant Janowitz's frame blocked off Joe's window. A moment later, his moon face was peering at them through the rain streaked glass.

"Excuse me, son." A large patch of fog formed on the window, obscuring his mouth, jowls and chins. "Aren't you a bit young to be driving a police car?"

Irene groaned as Joe rolled down the window; she wasn't in the mood for this.

"Jesus Christ, Walt." Gutierrez growled in mock disgust. "You get fatter every time I see you."

Walt Janowitz leaned past Joe, frowning at Lindstrom.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you and your son to exit the patrol… Oh shit! Lindstrom, Gutierrez! I'm sorry." He pulled back and grinned at Joe. "How are you, short stuff?"

"Cram it up your ass, you dumb Polak." Joe said, unbuckling himself and grabbing his forage cap.

"I'm sorry _Jose_, but that's no way for _the help _to speak." He took a few ponderous steps back, allowing Gutierrez to get out of the car. "If you don't watch your tongue I'll have no choice but to give the INS a call."

"Oh I'm not worried, _Senor_." Joe puffed his chest and glared up at the overfed accident reconstructionist. "Like you'd ever find INS in the phone book."

Janowitz switched targets and eyed Lindstrom. His face was as serious as an executioner's, but his eyes were laughing.

"Honestly, Lindy, how do you put up with this mouthy little spic?'

Irene had no intention of playing cheerleader to their pissing contest. She ignored the Sergeant's question and pointed over at the wreck.

"We've got a good crash for you Sergeant." She spoke with a friendly tone but didn't smile. Walt Janowitz was a smart cop, but lazy and long overdue for retirement. She didn't like him very much.

"Nineteen eighty-eight Chevy Celebrity, discovered as it sits by a commuter out of Latham six thirty this morning. Larch PD calls the RO, one Helen McIvor of Latham. RO checks on the vehicle, and reports it stolen from her residence."

Janowitz frowned, interested.

"Twin tire marks forty yards from the vehicle seem to indicate an emergency stop and subsequent loss of control." she continued; it felt good to be on top of things. "We did a quick scan of the tire marks, there doesn't seem to be any indication of an impact with another object. No roadside debris, no animal carcass."

"No dead bodies." Janowitz interrupted with a small smile.

Irene shook her head. "No fatalities,"

The Sergeant quickly assessed the crash scene, muttering notes to himself under his breath.

"How long before we get some more bodies up here? I want the westbound lane blocked off so I can get some measurements of those skids."

"We've got two more PCs Code-two." Joe answered. "We're thinking they're about ten minutes away. Ident is on its way to get some prints, so don't go mashing your big ham hocks all over the evidence."

"Is _that _what stolen means?" He scoffed and turned to Lindstrom. "You learn something new every day, huh Lindy?"

Irene smiled and laughed obligingly. though as soon as the Sergeant turned his back to her, she dropped the smile and rolled her eyes. She glanced over at Joe, who smirked and winked at her. He knew exactly how his partner felt about certain people. She wished he couldn't read her like that.

"Help me with my stuff, _Jose_."

"Get you own gear, you lazy fucking goldbrick." Joe said, as he began obediently following Janowitz to the rear of the patrol car. "I don't get paid like a TAR Sergeant, so I don't do TAR work."

"Didn't you write the Sergeant's test?" Janowitz asked.

"Yeah, four months ago. I passed it, now I'm just waiting for the red tape to clear."

"Red Tape? You'll never see your chevrons. Irons would never promote a Mexican."

"He had no problem promoting a blockhead Pole with bad breath. Besides, my parents were Panamanian not Mexican, you ignorant son of a bitch."

"There's a difference?"

Irene groaned again. She was cold, she was tired, and there was no way she could tolerate their ass-grabbing all morning. Hopefully backup would show soon, and Janowitz would have someone else to entertain. She grit her teeth and walked over to the other two.

Sergeant Janowitz had popped the trunk and began emptying it of it's contents. Out came his cameras, two metal clipboards full of various forms, a large tape measure, boxes of chalk, a rangefinder, plastic sheeting, evidence bags. Everything necessary to deduce with a fair amount of accuracy what had precipitated and followed a traffic accident.

_-Traffic incident, actually-_

They had drilled that into her head at the Police Academy. There was no such thing as a traffic accident. The word _accident _implied a set of circumstances outside of human control. In reality, most _incidents_, were caused by at least one person's inattention or carelessness, and not by an act of God. And therefore the RPD responded to traffic _incidents_, not accidents.

With arms full of Janowitz's gear, they picked their way down to the crumpled sedan.

"Nice crash, eight points." The Sergeant said as he chuffed for breath like her father's old Farmall tractor.

They stopped at the abandoned vehicle, depositing some of the equipment on the wrinkled hood. Janowitz stuck his head inside and gave a low whistle. He crammed one catcher's-mitt sized hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handheld voice recorder and began making notes. Like most veteran RPD, the Sergeant had long abandoned writing notes while on scene. The ever present wind and rain played havoc on paperwork. The smart cops adapted, the thick cops got reamed out for keeping shoddy records.

_-Rain and wind, wind and rain. Why do people live here?-_

Irene eyed the dreary tree line. She had yet to fully adapt to Raccoon city' constant wet weather and grey skies; it was possible that she may never. It seemed strange to her that the locals were never bothered by it. It never rained this much in Wyoming, granted it got colder in winter. As she watched, the mist and trees further down the road begin to flicker blue and red; she could hear the hiss of incoming traffic.

"Here's our backup." she said.

"Go get them set up okay?" Joe answered. "Walt figures these guys were pitched from the wreck. I want you to radio the precinct and get them to notify all the surrounding hospitals to watch out for admissions with broken bones and lacerations. If these guys are running, they're running hurt."

"Running is the wrong word for what these punks will be doing." Janowitz mumbled as he snapped a photo of the driver's side.

Irene quickly and efficiently instructed the two squads to block off westbound traffic and made her way back to her own patrol car to relay Joe's message. She had her doubts that the perps had fled the scene, though. Cell phone reception was terrible through the mountains, so they couldn't call for help. It _was _possible that there had been a second car.

_-Possible, but not probable. They're somewhere in those woods- _

She gulped and watched Officers Hall and Ryman drive past her, stopping a few yards before Gordon's Creek bridge. If the perps were hurt and in the forest, whatever had killed the Connor family was in the same area. Would they be sent into the woods after them? How many more bodies hid in the rain and the grass and the trees? How many waited for them? For her?

_-Stop it-_

She sighed, pulled off her cap and straightened her hair. What was wrong with her? That hadn't been the first time she had dealt with dead bodies. It couldn't have been Madison Connor that was bothering her; she had handled kid DOA's before. There had been that Buchanan boy, run over on his bike, that young family in their Honda Civic, trapped and burned to death.

_-There was Ann-_

"Stop it." she whispered. She needed to get a grip. Gutierrez and Janowitz were making their way toward her. She reset her cap and climbed out to meet them.

"HQ will relay the advisement, EMTs will be here any minute." She kept her eyes off her partner.

The other two nodded. Janowitz handed her a large spool tape measure and a box of chalk.

"Let's go take a look at those tire marks." he said.

They had been at the tire marks for less than a minute when the Sergeant bent at the waist with a groan and called them over. "Hey, I thought you guys said there was no debris up here. This sure looks like _fucking _debris to me."

He snapped a quick photo and scooped up a grey plastic sliver, the size of Irene's pinkie finger. "Does this look like it came from the grille of an eighty eight Chevy Celebrity?"

She would have to take the TAR's word for it, but did not doubt the man.

"So that means that there was a collision." Joe said.

"No _shit_," Janowitz scanned the roadway around them. Irene and Joe did the same.

"There's a bit of glass over here too." she said, pointing at the diamond shards pebbled through the passenger's side skid mark.

"That would be from the passenger side headlight lens." Janowitz said. "So, whatever they hit was big and hard enough to damage their car, and solid enough that it didn't break up on impact. Animal strike maybe? Probably a deer, the rain could have washed away the blood."

The accident reconstructionist quickly skimmed the eastbound shoulder with his small, intelligent eyes. "It's possible that the impact propelled the object into that brush over there. Lindy, you go check for an animal carcass. We'll get that bozo, Ryman in there as well."

"Hey Ryman!" Joe signalled the younger cop over.

A tractor-trailer breezed past, spattering them with dirty rainwater. By the time it had cleared, Officer Kevin Ryman had joined them

"Go check that ditch for roadkill." Janowitz instructed.

"You mean squirrels and skunks and stuff?" Ryman asked, deadpan as usual.

"A deer, smartass,"

"Hungry?"

"Get moving,"

The two cops crossed to the opposite shoulder. Despite the chilly weather, Irene felt a warm trickle of sweat beading her forehead, mingling with the road grit. What was it that she was feeling? It wasn't fear exactly, more a perception of dread. Further in the trees, a crow cawed and scrambled it's way into the air. Her father had insisted that crows were a bad omen and would fork the evil eye whenever he chanced upon a large group of them. He was full of his little fallacies: if the first winter calf was white, the winter would be hard, if his head itched, it meant wet weather was on its way. She was never sure if he truly believed the stuff or was simply keeping himself entertained.

She was well into the other ditch, sweating heavily. The bottom half of her slacks quickly dampened and were wicking cold water up her legs. She swallowed and wiped at her face. A patch of sweat prickled between her breasts and shoulder blades.

_-Damn bulletproof vest, no wonder Joe never wears his-_

Her feet kept pushing her forward, toward a spot of flattened grass. The crow called out, passing overhead.

_-What is that?- _

A shiny brown square was stomped into the mud. She bent over, realizing it was a billfold, filthy and waterlogged. She flipped it open with a pen, noting that it was still fat with money. One slot had an American Express card. The clear plastic identification pocket contained a current New York driver's licence belonging to a Victor Yendrowich, who was, according to the photo, a middle aged Caucasian with a round face and a thick moustache.

"I found something." she called out. Her voice sounded tinny, far away.

Twin beads of sweat rolled out from her hairline, her mouth had a salty, watery feel to it. She took a step back, assessing the trampled clearing. There were clearly shoe prints here. As a matter of fact there was a shoe here, a brown loafer submerged up to its laces in the bog.

She could hear Kevin Ryman drawing closer. Her back and chest were drenched as if she were standing in the middle of a Baker Creek pasture during an August drought. Once again, she could smell the fertilized soil, could hear the flies buzzing.

_-Could hear Dad screaming- _

Her stomach lurched. Her slacks were too dark, her hands were stained red.

"Lindy, you okay?"

The tall ryegrass was painted in blood, thinned by the constant drizzle. On one level this registered with her, on another she was ten years old, baking under the Wyoming sun as her father wailed into the dusty sky.

"Hey, Lindy,"

Kevin Ryman's hands grabbed her just as she was about to swoon. She turned to him, pale and bathed in sweat.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

**"Notes from The Sherriff" Latham Weekly**

**Reminder to Lock Homes, Garages. **

Sherriff Barnes would like to remind Latham residents that more traffic along County road 128 during the summer months means a higher likelihood of stolen property. A vehicle stolen from an unlocked garage earlier in the week is an example of...

**AN. Thanks again to Artistic Masochist for lending me the awesome Liv Tremmain. I'm glad I can include him in the fun. Hopefully I got Kevin's character right. I haven't played Outbreak, so I'm just going off of the trusty ol' RE Wiki.**

**Oh, yeah, hopefully I'm not offending anyone with all the ethnic slurs. For the record I find Gutierrez and Janowitz's actions abhorrent.**

**Stay Tuned.**

**-C**


	8. Three Pistols

_September 1995 Trois Rivieres_

_Gil shifted in the LTD's flattened driver's seat, stirring the ghosts of smoked cigarettes, spilled drinks, and stale farts. His hands, trembling with artificial stimulants and genuine anxiety, fidgeted the Ruger .22 magnum across his lap. Somewhere close by, a police siren screamed down the dingy streets._

_-Just relax, this will be a piece of cake.-_

_How many times in his life had he convinced himself that something would be a piece of cake? Wasn't that exactly what he had told himself before he had become involved with Jacques Talbot? Now look at him, sitting in a hot car, waiting outside some slime ball hotel with a gun in his hands, ready to murder a man before he had the chance to do the same. How did he get himself into these situations?_

_-Shit happens, now deal with it.-_

_One hand tightened around the pistol grip; he felt the crosshatch dig into his palm. He would deal with it all right._

_Although Jacques Talbot wasn't a sworn member of the Hell's Angels, the man followed many of their principles, including their methods of bill collection. If a person owed Jacques Talbot money, he would remind them of their debt. If his warning went unheeded, it would be followed by a severe beating as another reminder. If by chance the debtor still refused to pay, they would find themselves very dead shortly after. Gil had received his beating two weeks ago._

_The Auberge Centre Ville's neon sign flickered off. Gil cast a nervous glance over at his quarry's Chevelle. It was possible that Jacques had already left, trusting his ride would be left alone for the night._

_He shook his head, his long hair was damp with sweat despite the relatively cool night time breeze. _

_-I would have seen him leave, he's just killing time.-_

_Killing time indeed. He stared at the innocuously small pistol between his sweating hands, loaded with seven bullets plus one round chambered. He preferred something with a bit more kick, but beggars couldn't afford to be choosers, besides the odd selection might throw the police (and more importantly Jacques Talbot's brother) off his scent. Eight bullets; it was a fair price to pay to get his life back. _

_Motion at the doors; a bulky man was swaggering out into the trash strewn parking lot. _

_-Gorilla neck, jean jacket, buzz cut and a long beard; Jacques Talbot in the flesh.-_

_Gil took a deep breath and cranked the LTD over. The starter croaked and the valves wheezed as the engine coughed to life. He'd do the owner a favour and ditch the piece of shit in the Saint Lawrence after he was finished with it._

_He was rolling by the time the girl staggered out the bar. She laughed, sounding like a cat in heat, and stumbled after Talbot. The top buttons of her blouse had come undone and her bottle blonde hair hung in ratty tassels in front of her manic eyes. A junkie, if had ever seen one. _

_His foot slipped off the gas pedal, Gil bit his bottom lip. He kept his eyes on the girl, watched as she drew nearer to his target. _

"_Don't follow him, don't do it you stupid plotte." he muttered. _

_Unheeded, the woman sauntered after her man, toward her own death. Gil sighed and creaked the old car ahead. Eight divided by two still equalled enough bullets to end two lives. Down went the driver's window, forward rolled the LTD. His heart thumped in rhythm with the tired engine as his cocaine buzz disappeared under the onrushing flow of adrenaline._

_He neared the pair, gun ready, teeth grinding. They had their backs to him; Jacques grunted something and the girl screeched laughter. He was right behind them._

"_Eh, Jacques!" _

_Talbot turned, just in time to catch Gil's first bullet in the throat. He staggered back like a punch drunk boxer, clawing at the new hole below his Adam's apple._

_-One…-_

_Gil fired twice more. The second and third shots hit him in the chest; down he went. A knockout._

_-…Two...three…- _

_The girl spun to face him, her blacked out eyes were wide behind a yellow curtain of damaged hair. She was young, maybe nineteen; already haggard and worn out looking. She opened her perfect little mouth to scream; Gil silenced her with a bullet between her teeth._

_-…Four…- _

_She was down with the first shot. Gil divided the rounds between them until he had counted to eight._

_-…Gun's empty…-_

**June 21 1998 Arklay Forest**

_-The gun's empty.-_

Gil cracked his watery eyes open, cast a weary glance over his shoulder. Close by, there was the rustling of grass, snapping twigs, and of course, those mindless cries. Those freaks were getting close again. After a moment's deliberation he flung the useless .32 into the trees.

_-The gun is empty, and I'm lost. I'm lost and I'm dying.-_

He forced himself not to weep, and nearly succeeded. A suppressed whimper escaped between his cracked and swollen lips as he blundered to his feet. The world blurred and disappeared for a moment like a television with bad reception; last night he had spiked a fever and his thoughts were getting more muddled by the hour.

_-I'll die on my own, unless, of course, they get to me first.-_

The moaning was getting louder every second. He groaned and thrashed his way forward through a tangle of dead trees. He had to make it back to the highway. He wouldn't survive another night out in the woods.

_-Don't think about the woods, think about the highway. Don't think about your pain, don't think about dying.-_

Another groan, long and drawn out. "Wait for us!" they seemed to be pleading. Gil sobbed briefly, reliving his encounter with his pursuers. They had tried to _eat _him, what the hell was wrong with them? He had seen all sorts of crazy drug behaviour, but had never witnessed anything like that. And the smell, even with his nose crushed into his head he could smell them. Like they had shit themselves and sat in it for days.

_-They won't stop. They'll chase you until you drop, and eat whatever is left.- _Henri explained, smug as usual.

"No." He shook his head as if to emphasise this point. He wouldn't die. He simply needed to get back to the road. He didn't care if he was arrested. He wanted out, wanted to get to a hospital. He wanted a doctor to set his jaw, stitch his face, to bandage his legs.

Another stifled sob, _his legs_. Oh god, he couldn't even bring himself to look at them, at the torn and ragged flesh, puffed up into livid purple sausages,that pressed against their shredded denim casings. And they _itched. _If he had a knife he would have been cutting the skin off his calves. He had never suffered the cocaine bugs like some of the other heavy users, but he doubted even the worst flake head felt bugs like this.

_-Just find the highway.-_

Where was he going? He had been blundering through the woods for two days. How had he managed to stray so far away from the road? Sure he had cracked his head and lost a gallon of blood, but he was still lucid enough to put thoughts together. He should be able to find out where he was. But how? He wasn't the outdoors type, he didn't know the area at all. The skies had been a grey sheet of lead every day, impossible to tell where the sun or stars were.

He didn't know which direction to head, but he _had _to keep moving. Those boozed up freaks made sure of that.

What was wrong with them? Why didn't they just chase him down and finish him off? Why were they content to take their time, howling brainlessly after him. They wouldn't even stop to sleep. Two days without rest, moving, bleeding, starving, drinking water out of puddles. Every hour the itching in his legs grew worse. Every hour the bugs crawled further up. They wouldn't stop, they were tormenting him, _toying _with him.

_-They're punishing you.- _His Grand Mere scolded_. -Punishing you for a life of sin. this is the wrath of God, a God you closed your eyes to.-_

He didn't deserve this. He would change, he would turn himself in. He would face the consequences of his actions.

_-It's too late for penance, It was too late a long time ago. Maybe selling that poison and stealing cars could be forgiven, but as soon as you took a life you had damned yourself.-_

Lachance whimpered. Out here in this endless forest, all pretext was stripped away. His rotten core lay exposed, naked. He clearly remembered stealing cigarettes and selling them to the other kids, kifing booze from the Depanneur. He recalled people that he had robbed, beaten, lives he had ruined with the shit he had sold them.

Tears spilled out of his puffy eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He could plainly see four faces. Four faces belonging to people who's lives he had ended.

Gil wept, genuinely remorseful for the first time in a quarter century. His pursuers answered, calling to him, beckoning him to join them.

_-It's too late Gil.- _Henri stated.

It _wasn't _too late, he would change. He would atone for what he had done, he just needed to get out of these _fucking _woods.

_-You'll never get out, they won't let you leave.-_

"Please…" Who was he talking to? God? The voices in his head? Those drug freaks? He settled for all of the above.

"I don't want to die…._I'll change_."

His right hand, moving on its own volition, sloppily signed the cross. His mouth, stiff and inaccurate began breathlessly wording a Hail Mary. It was the fist prayer to leave his lips since his childhood.

_-Pray for us sinners, now, and at- _

"…now and at…" He sobbed.

_-The hour of our death-_

He broke though the copse of trees, into a large clearing that looked like the surface of another planet. Sandy soil the colour of powdered cheese drifted in dunes. Puddles of blood red liquid, slick with an oily sheen, collected in the low spots. Every tree was a twisted black skeleton. Steel girders, orange and scabby with corrosion, poked out of the ground. The wind kicked up momentarily, assaulting his sinuses with a sulphurous reek that brought fresh tears to his eyes. He loped ahead on his infected legs, his feet sunk into the gritty soil. He trudged ahead, past a collection of fifty gallon drums, rusted and melting into the alien landscape.

He quickened his pace. There was a sign up ahead, ancient, stained with rust and barely legible.

**Westridge Tailings Management Zone**

**DANGER ARSENIC**

**Linn-Gordon Mining**

_-An old mine.-_

Gil attempted a smile. Near the other tree line a double black stripe of iron rails bisected the strange landscape.

_-Railway tracks, they've got to lead somewhere. If I follow them, I'll get out.-_

He hurried along, keeping one arm wrapped around his crushed chest to hold his loose ribs in place. His tormenters were in the field now as well, lurching along like drunks. He took his eyes off them, set them ahead, toward the railway tracks, toward the chance of salvation.

"Not dead yet.." he mumbled, and then scratched furiously at his legs.

_God they itched._

**Authors Note: I always thought that it was strange that it took days to turn into a zombie in the first Resident Evil (evidenced by the keepers diary) and minutes to go full out zombie in RE2+3. I always assumed that there were different strains of the T-Virus (sort of like the flu virus) maybe a more virulent strain leaked out during the Raccoon City outbreak. This discussion probably belongs in a forum... but screw forums, its relevant to the story(I think) and definitely relevant to poor Gil up there.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	9. Teenage Wasteland

**June 22 1998 Arklay Forest**

Jody peeled the mass of sweat-matted hair off his forehead and shifted the backpack. After a week of steady rain, the afternoon heat wielded an oppressive humidity that had transformed their hiking trip into a death march. He squinted down the railway tracks. The air simmered with barbecue grill heat lines. The sun was cooking the creosote out of the railway ties, wafting a nauseating stench into the muggy air.

A few steps behind him, Erin groaned.

"I think I'm dying here," she said.

"Just a little farther. Don't worry."

She quickened her pace. Cinders crunched under her hiking boots with the brittle rasp of grinding teeth. A moment later she was beside him. Her nostrils flared as she took deep breaths though her delicate nose.

"We're lost, aren't we?"

He loved her voice, that velvety smooth twang which still bore the evidence of her Georgian pedigree. It was a shame that her accent was fading, steadily transforming into a female version of his dull, uninflected Western Speak.

He shaded his eyes. Farther down, the railway tracks veered sharply to the right. Two more bends and they should be at the quarry.

"Nope, not lost. It's just taking a bit longer than I thought," he answered. Gary had told him that it would take an hour. Apparently Gary was one heck of a fast walker.

She grabbed his wrist and skipped in front of him. Her chocolate-brown eyes narrowed. "You lying to me?"

He knew that she wasn't angry yet, her voice always sped up and rose a few octaves whenever she was agitated, or excited. Linda had told him that is was a common trait among Southerners. He had no way to be sure about that, though it was a common trait among the Hawthorne family.

"Have faith, I've been here a bunch of times." He attempted a reassuring smile, a smile she returned with her outlandishly bad "serious" face.

"Allright." She released his hand. Her warmth lingered on his wrist. "I don't see why we couldn't have just gone to Victory Lake."

"It's worth it, I swear."

"I bet," She spun and continued down the rails.

He slowed his pace, and she continued past him, tall, slender, with straight shoulders and a boyish mess of yellow hair, effortlessly gorgeous. She was a singularity among their school's legion of hyper-feminine cutouts.

Her position as school outsider was cemented by the fact that as the daughter of a CDC virologist hired on by Umbrella, she was considered Raccoon City's New Blood. New Bloods were generally better educated and wealthier than the working class descendants of Raccoon City's original settlers. Much like the wealthy residents of F. Scott Fitzgerald's West Egg, the newcomers were treated with a fair amount of disdain, especially in Old Blood strongholds like Millhaven District's Middleborough High.

And yet Erin Hawthorne could not be bothered to bat an eye at the abuse the popular girls sent her way. Middleborough's popular girls: living facsimiles with highlighted hair and padded bras, beautiful in the way sunrises were beautiful. Breathtakingly temporary was the term he had coined for them. So many of them were destined to peak at twenty and spend the next fifty years wallowing in their mediocrity.

But not Erin Hawthorne, who was fetching in a way the other girls could only dream to be. She was his Southern Belle, the Daisy to his Jay Gatsby.

She was fifteen feet ahead of him, balancing herself on one of the rails with her arms outstretched. Her back and shoulders were glossy with sweat.

Jody closed his eyes. He briefly imagined wrapping his arms around her, linking his hands over that warm, flat stomach. He imagined feeling her short hair brushing against his face, of how it would smell. He imagined bringing one hand up to her jaw, turning that pretty face to meet her lips with his own.

"You coming?" she asked.

She had turned to face him and was tottering backward down the tracks.

"Yup,"

"Well come on then, you're the one who _says _he knows where he's going."

"I know where I'm going," he said, smiling.

He stepped up his pace to meet her. She had spun back around and was hopping from one railroad tie to the other, hands in the back pockets of her olive drab fatigues.

Jody had noticed her the very first day of school: a blonde head poking out above the crowd, briskly weaving through the hallway. When they passed each other her eyes were set forward; his were counting the freckles on her cheeks.

They walked together in silence for about a mile. Their friendship had progressed past the stage where the lulls in conversation were painful or awkward. Though with Erin Hawthorne there was rarely a lull in the conversation. Jody suspected that she came upon it naturally, seeing as how her whole family were talkers. Supper at the Hawthorne homestead was reminiscent of standing with an ear pressed against the bird cage at Riverside Pets. Seven voices, vying for attention at the huge walnut table. It was so different than his regular dinners, consisting of himself, Gary, Linda, and the TV in the background with Jeopardy cranked to full volume.

Past the second bend, one more to go and they should see the cut line that led to the old granite quarry, which was flooded with seventy feet of cold clean water. It had been a party place when Gary and Linda had been young, but the county smashed the bridges leading to it, and so Raccoon City's teenage population found other places to drink Blue Ribbon and catch crab lice. They should have the place to themselves.

His stomach flopped over on itself, what was he thinking? They were friends. She hadn't shown any inkling of attraction to him.

But he did love her, infatuated ever since their backpacks bumped together in that crowded Middleborough hallway and a paperback spilled from her open side-pouch. The cover was missing a corner, and the spine was reinforced with packing tape, but the title read clearly in black, art-deco lettering. Tall and lovely Erin Hawthorne read Ernest Hemingway. Tall and lanky Jody Albrecht was spellbound.

They were past the third bend; in the distance an old wooden signpost poked out of its leafy cover.

His stomach lurched again. He recalled the same feeling the day he had biked up to Victory Lake with Chub Hartney, intent to dive off Deacon's Point. The sensation could be described as being about one part exhilaration to three parts testicle shrivelling anxiety. He kept picturing himself jumping short and destroying his legs on the rocky outcropping a few feet above the waterline. Chub Hartney was a terrible swimmer; Jody would have drowned before anyone could have rescued him. Yet still, he knew that he would dive.

"That's the road up there."

"Well its about time," she answered.

Jody smiled to himself, cherishing how she pronounced time "_taam_"

Off the tracks now, out of the sickening coal tar stench, cool under the canopy of trees. The sides of the road were still littered with teenage artifacts: smashed bottles, the skeleton of a rotten lawn chair, flattened beer cans. All were mouldering and half buried, emerging from the ground like the rising dead.

"Are you taking me to a garbage dump?"

Jody smiled. "Nope, its really nice there."

"I'm gonna kill you."

"No you won't, you'll love it."

She laughed; it was high pitched, very girlish, and completely genuine. Erin Hawthorne was incapable of fake laughter. "I'd better, or you're getting a whooping,"

The path opened before them, revealing the large manmade lake. The clean water shimmered in bright, afternoon sunlight. The opposite shore was swampy and littered with fallen trees and abandoned steel trestles, but their side, much deeper, was an untouched jewel surrounded by black, craggy scree.

"Ohhhh." Apparently Erin approved. She stood poised at the ledge of a small bluff with her hands on her narrow hips. She turned her head to the sky and watched as a small hawk tucked its wings and plunged at some unseen prey. The sun caught her hair and shimmered like a halo.

Jody took a slow step forward. His mouth was dry.

He took another step forward, palms sweaty.

_-Don't be an idiot-_

His pace slowed to a stop. Erin was his only friend; he was about to ruin everything.

He took his eyes away from her and glanced at the rock wall to his left. Every inch of it was etched with fifteen years' worth of adolescent musings.

**BK+MV FOREVER**

**LED ZEPPLIN SUCKS!**

**Latham High Grad '71**

**JOE GUTIERREZ IS A MADMAN**

**TRUDY SHELLING PUTS OUT**

Most of the graffiti was simplistic and meaningless even to those who wrote it, but not all.

**GA+LK '70**

Gary Albrecht and Linda Krause, 1970, Gary proposed to her here. They had been dating for five months.

Gary said he knew he would Marry Linda after their first date. Jay Gatsby had reinvented himself and built a fortune in order to win Daisy's love. There was no Tom Buchannan standing between him and his Daisy, only Jody's own trepidation.

He was moving forward again; that summer afternoon at Deacon's Point, he had cleared the outcropping easily. The water had been freezing, invigorating after the deathly plunge down.

Jody was less than a foot behind her now. His pulse matched that of a small rodent.

"That water looks so-" She stopped as his arms slid around her. His hands linked around her flat stomach. His bare chest pressed against her spine.

Jody felt her tense. Every bit of her was rigid and unyielding; she was coiling, preparing to flinch away from him. She would spin to face him with those big brown eyes narrowed, accusatory and suspicious. She would ask him what the Hell he was doing?

And her muscles slackened; her body yielded to his. Imperceptibly, her weight shifted as she moved into his caress. His pulse quickened. He let out a long breath; her hair fluttered and swept across his nose, sparking a tremor that raced through his own body into hers.

His hand, remarkably steady, slid up her side, up her long neck, to her jaw. She sighed softly as he tilted her head. Her eyes were closed; she had such long eyelashes. He bent his head forward and kissed the corner of her mouth, another contented sigh. Smoothly, he slid around, his belly brushed against hers and she brought her arms up, draping them on his sunburnt shoulders. He moved in and pressed his lips against hers, could taste her Doctor Pepper chapstick. Her lips parted, and her small tongue ran along the inside of his bottom lip; her fingers whispered through his hair. She pulled away, but her hands stayed where they were. Her cheeks were flushed. Her pupils dilated.

"Mama was right," she said. "You _did _like me."

His pulse returned to that of a human's. He let out another long breath. "Yeah, I sure do."

"Since when?"

"Remember when I asked you if you liked A Farewell to Arms?"

"Yeah,"

"About thirty seconds before that," Jody laughed and kissed her again. Erin Hawthorne was his, the Maria to his Robert Jordan.

"Is this going to change anything between us?" he asked.

"Probably," another smile. "Change is good isn't it?"

"Sure," He slid his hands down her sides and rested them on her hips; he couldn't stop touching her. Deacon's Point didn't have anything on this feeling.

They stayed locked together for what seemed like an hour. Their bodies warm, pressed together. Erin rested her pointy chin on his shoulder and covered his neck with feathery kisses. They would date, and then one day he would take her back here and propose to her. Before they married, he would buy a hammer and rock chisel, and carve their initials high on the rock face.

With one last peck, she slipped away from him and adjusted her banana-yellow bikini top.

"That water looks _so nice, _and I'm cooking. Let's go for a swim."

Jody waved down to the water and grinned; his skin still yearned for her touch. "That's why I took you here."

"No it isn't," she said, laughing.

She kicked off her hiking boots and slid out of her fatigues. The other girls thought she was too skinny. He thought that she looked like a dancer.

One day her would be able to explore every inch of her.

Taking two quick steps, she whooped and threw herself off the ridge in a clumsy cannonball dive. She squealed and thrashed around, kicking up a spray of water that shimmered like ice chips.

"It's cold!" she shrieked, treading water and grinning goofily up at him.

"Oh yeah?" Jody knew very well how cold the water could be.

The smile fell from his face when a black mass of squalling birds exploded out of the far treeline. They circled overhead for a moment and then scattered like burnt paper in the wind.

He shaded his eyes. On the opposite bank, a dark figure was ambling through the trees, hunched forward like Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea.

"Jody!"

He glanced at Erin, and then back over at the figure.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asked.

The shape, an inky-black blob with a white face, splashed through the shallow water. It was following the shoreline, heading toward them.

"Someone's on the other side of the pit. There's something wrong with him," he said.

Erin's thrashing became more pronounced as she paddled back to the water's edge. It wasn't long before she was standing next to him, dripping wet and brushing her straw coloured hair out of her face. She wrinkled her brow and shaded her eyes as well.

"Is he drunk? Or hurt?"

"I don't know." Jody answered. A cottonball cumulus had drifted in front of the sun. Beside him, Erin shivered.

The figure continued picking its way through a jumble of scaffolding and deadfall trees. With the sun partially blotted out, Jody could pick out a filthy pair of blue jeans and a dark jacket. A moment later the man disappeared behind a screen of young saplings.

The wind shifted direction; a faint groan floated toward them.

"I think he's hurt," Erin said.

"Should we get help?" Jody kept his eyes on the opposite shore. He felt Erin lace her long fingers through his own.

"We should go down there."

The bent shape, clearly a man, re-emerged, closer to them now. Those dark stains looked like blood. Jody wondered where this guy came from. He didn't look like a hiker.

"Do you know anything about first aid?" he asked.

"A little, from girl scouts,"

The stranger made an abrupt halt and turned his ashen face up to the ledge they were standing on.

"We should go get help." Jody Albrecht was someone who had always known what he did and did not want.

He did not want to go down there.

"It took us an hour and a half to walk here. Who would we get?" She gave his hand a little squeeze and then released it in order to pull on her pants and boots. "Besides, there's two of us, if he's a bum he won't try anything."

Her boots were on; she was already starting for the small escarpment that would lead them to the man.

"Grab the backpack, okay."

Jody let his gaze linger on the man in the trees, and then switched over to his Southern Belle. There was no sense arguing; wherever she led him, he would follow.

**Author's Note: Ah young love, I had so much fun writing this chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it. **

**Another AN- Go read some F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. All the cool kids are doing it.**


	10. Little Bones

****_I can cry beg and whine, t'every rebel I find_

_Just to give me a line I could use to describe._

_They'd say 'Baby, eat this chicken slow. It's full of all them little bones.'_

* * *

**June 22 1998 Arklay Forest**

Its existence was painless. The agonies of its earlier form had disappeared. Its damaged chest no longer fired icy daggers into its lungs. Its fever had vanished, as had the steady throb of its broken and mangled face.

Its existence was simple. Its past worries; of prison, a place called Seattle, gone. It no longer needed sleep, it no longer needed shelter. Those who had pursued it into the woods now stood ten feet behind it. It did not know; or if it did, it did not care, that they had once been enemies. It had no enemies now. It had only three classifications for the vast world in which it occupied. There were those like it, there were objects in its path, and there was food.

_-Food.-_

Its one purpose, all consuming, to feed. It yearned single-mindedly for food with an addiction that paled the vices of its previous life. There was not a word in any language spoken for the craving that it was subjected to. It would destroy its body; it would obliterate everything that impeded it. It would devour all it came in contact with, or ruin itself in the process.

_-It will feed.-_

For the longing to eat was also its burden. It was capable of feeding, yet it did not taste. It did not _enjoy _eating; it would never be satisfied. To go without food was torture, to eat did not sate the misery of its desire. Its existence, however simple it may be, was one of perpetual anguish. Even as it gorged itself, it starved.

_-It MUST feed.-_

It, (It could no longer be referred to as he; the vestigial organ between its legs was now obsolete and useless.) would feed. It would feed until its belly was full. It would continue to feed until its stomach ruptured and the food packed into its abdominal cavity. Given enough to eat, the flesh of its midsection would stretch and tear like tired fabric and the food would spill and pool at its feet. Still it would feed.

_-Soon-_

There was food here, _good _food. Food that was alive, fresh, intoxicating. There had been two, but the larger one was gone now, the others had the large one. That was fine; it did not _want _the large one. The large one was not fresh; the smaller one was fresh. It had tried to seize the food, but the food had struggled and had torn long swaths of flesh from its face with its fingers. It did not feel the wounds, the wounds did not matter. The food was escaping, the food mattered.

_-Food-_

It needed to reclaim its meal. The smaller food's essence was leaking from it, providing an arousing coppery scent for it to tail.

_-Close.- _

It trashed through some objects that barred it from the food. Through the barricade and the food came into view, slower now, its essence was streaming out from the tender spot between its head and body. It would need to hurry; the food would not be fresh for very long.

Its stricken prey turned its head back and cried weakly.

A tiny spark lit in the dark night of its defunct mind.

_-Yellow hair…She looks like… that girl…from Trois Rivieres.-_

It faltered momentarily; Was the food a girl? Was that what food was called? What was a Trois Rivieres?

The few remaining neurons of its outmoded cerebellum, writhing in their death throes, dredged up another memory. The image of a blonde girl's dark eyes widening as she stared into the muzzle of a gun.

It stopped, head cocked.

_-FOOD!-_

It shook the memory away, those things meant nothing to it. The food was _escaping;_ the food meant _everything_! It continued its pursuit. The food was slewing through a great mass of liquid that slowed it further. It cried out again, its call was stimulating, enthralling, a starving creature's siren song.

_-CLOSE!-_

It charged ahead. Unlike its compatriots, it found that it could still move quickly. An advantage that it did not have the sense to be thankful for.

The food was close, _so close_. Its essence pooling around it, hot, tantalizing, life itself.

_-Eat… eat… eat… eat… EAT… EAT… EATEATEATEATEATEAT-_

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, June 24 1998**

**Search Continues for Missing Youths**

**Ben Bertolucci**

Aided by numerous tips called in by Raccoon City residents. Search crews headed by Raccoon Police Department K9 units will investigate the Northwest shoreline of Victory Lake in an effort to locate the whereabouts of Jody Albrecht(17) and Erin Hawthorne(17), both of Raccoon City, declared missing...

**Author's Note: Oh dear God this chapter was a pain to write! Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter, a bit of a cheap trick on my part. Once again, thank you to all the reviewers (insert high five here) you guys make my day. I am desperately trying to keep this fic rated T, if I'm crossing the line let me know and I'll adjust accordingly.**

**Stay Tuned**

**-C**


	11. Hillbilly Highway

**June 25 1998 Raccoon City**

It didn't take long after Forest had shipped to Fort Carson for his reputation to follow. Soon, every man on base knew that he had been to the Balkans and put some rounds through his M-24. As a result, very few soldiers ever bothered to ask what he was doing out of bed at three-thirty in the morning on a weeknight. For those who did, a quick puff of the chest and some smart comment about how "a Special Forces soldier slept when he was dead" was always enough to deflect the question. Even the fuzzy recruits had enough sense to catch the subtext in that message, Sergeant Speyer was hardass, so leave him the fuck alone.

In those final three hundred and twenty nine days of his contract with Uncle Sam, Forest chewed Red Man tobacco and chain drank strong coffee. It helped soften, but never fully countered the crushing exhaustion that went hand in hand with a lifestyle that involved an average of three hours' sleep a night. When the shakes got bad enough, an illicit supply of Carbamazepine kept his hands steady. Coupled with all the stimulants in his system the stuff gave him head splitting migraines, but a sniper was no good if he shook like a palsied old man as soon as drew a bead, and so he suffered through it.

Not once did it occur to him to see a military shrink about his troubles. The Speyer family had a long line of proud soldiers who's history had stretched back to the American Revolution, fighting stock, his Pa called them. Both grandparents had answered the call and fought the Germans. His father and uncles hadn't waited to be drafted to fight in Vietnam, and Uncle Willard never made it home. Not a one them deserved to have their good names dishonoured by their gutless progeny.

And so he endured the nightmares, the sleepless nights and tremors that had come to define his time at Fort Carson. He finished his time in the Tenth Special Forces Group with a flawless service record and then ran from his Army career like a yellow dog with his ass kicked in.

Of course, things were better now. Fort Carson was thousands of miles away. He was sleeping more; his hands were steadier. The television never bothered inquiring why he would choose to watch a Saint Louis Cardinals rebroadcast at a quarter to four. His co-workers at the Racoon Police Department had always known him as a night-owl, and so no questions were asked. Most importantly he was far enough away from Arkansas to be an embarrassment to his family.

Forest shifted in his recliner and scratched at his stubbly chin. He would finish watching the game, hit the gym, shower, and then grab some chow. He would still be at the Larch Street Precinct a half-hour early, ready for another day as one of Raccoon City's finest.

He shook his head and chuckled softly. The laughter sounded very lonely in his barracks-like apartment.

_-Officer Forest Speyer, who'd have thought?-_

It was actually a tip from his old Commanding Officer, a fellow Arkansawer he had gotten along with, that had led him to his current job. For the past two years he had been the RPD's Special Tactics and Rescue Service sharpshooter. At least his official title was sharpshooter, in reality he hadn't even held his rifle for months. Most times his unit, Bravo team, handled the search and rescue missions, while the more experienced STARS Alpha handled the action. This was fine by him, though. His hands didn't jitter when he chambered a round anymore, but that didn't mean that he wanted to push things. The less he had to use his rifle, the better.

He took his eyes off of the old TV and glanced at the family photo nailed to the wall.

As a boy he would spend quite a bit of time peering at the grainy old framed photographs above his parent's fireplace. Four generations of Speyer men, all with long hillbilly faces, standing stiffly in their uniforms. On the mantle, among all the black and whites was a single colour photo, of his father's youngest brother, Willard. He was handsome for a Speyer, dressed in a smart looking green uniform with a matching beret cocked on his head. Forest had grown up hearing the stories about Uncle Willard. How he had been a Special Forces soldier called a Green Beret. Of how he and his unit had raided a North Vietnamese POW camp; that Uncle Willard had died so another soldier could go home to his family. Even as a ten year old runt who could barely handle a .22 rimfire, Forest had known what he wanted, he wanted his own green beret.

Forest stuck to his guns and enlisted shortly after graduation. It had taken three years of nonstop training to make it from an Eleven Bravo infantry grunt to Special Forces. One-thousand ninety-five were devoted to training, drilling, discipline, trips to the PX barber every third Friday to get the bristles sharpened on his brush cut. One hundred sixty-eight weeks spent either on the range, at the gym, or in a classroom. Corporal Speyer lived and breathed Army. Corporal Speyer was hardcore, H_oo-Rah!_

He turned twenty-two on a troop plane somewhere over the Atlantic, a guts and glory Sergeant fresh out of his Eighteen Bravo MOS and en-route to Stuttgart for deployment with the Tenth Special Forces Group. He had made it, he was a Green Beret. What a shame it was that he had turned out to be an outright failure as a soldier, a washed up nerve case after seven years' service. So much for fighting stock.

He supposed being a cop would be the best he could do. He was the first of any of his kin to get on with the law, and his folks claimed that he had done them proud. He glanced around the room and wondered how proud his Pa would be if he saw his son right now. Four days of scruff on his jaw, pigsty apartment, grease-ball hair. He knew that his Ma worried about him. She could tell that something had been eating him ever since he got back from Europe, but his Ma had also married a Speyer man. She knew better than anyone else that the Speyer menfolk dealt with their problems by themselves. "A man's troubles belong to him and him alone." How many times had he heard his Pa say that?

Forest started as a discordant jangle rang through his apartment. It took a few seconds for it to register that it was his telephone, ringing. He eyed it with suspicion. Sullivan and Aiken were on call tonight, so it probably wasn't work. His old Army buds weren't the chatty type.

That only left one option.

_-Family-_

Family trouble, to be exact. His Pa already had one heart attack while he was in Bosnia, and Grand-Dad Speyer had cancer. Late night phone calls only meant bad things. His pulse quickened as he grabbed the phone, knocking over a plastic Burger King collectors cup full of water.

"Hullo,"

"Hey," the female voice on the other line answered slowly.

Forest sighed; he recognised the voice, not family.

_-Irene-_

He had been up in Lane County with STARS Bravo for the past two weeks, dredging a lake for the bodies of four college kids who went missing during a canoe trip. He hadn't spoken to her since he had left. He glanced over at his microwave, the clock read twenty after four.

"Did I wake you up?" she asked.

"Naw, I'm awake."

"Whatcha up to?"

"Watching a ball game." She had called him up to make small talk?

"Oh yeah, who's playing?"

"Saint Louis and Cleveland,"

"Who's ahead?"

"Cleveland in the sixth, by three,"

"Hmmm,"

Forest frowned; he could hear traffic on the other end of the line, and something that sounded an awful lot like a diesel engine.

"Where you calling from Reen?" he asked.

"A pay phone at Emmy's truck stop. You want to grab some breakfast with me?"

Forest frowned again. Irene had the day off, and was not an early riser by any means. The few times he had stayed over, she had slept like the dead until her alarm went off, and then mashed the snooze button at least another half dozen times.

"Yeah, sure," he said. Officer Lindstrom may have been acting strange, but breakfast sounded pretty good, especially with a bit of company. His stomach grumbled in agreement. "Gimme about fifteen minutes all right?"

"Okay, I'll see you in a bit."

"Yep." Forest hung up the phone, righted the cup, and grabbed his wallet.

Fourteen minutes later, he swung his pickup off Alder Street into Emmy's expansive parking lot. He cruised past a long rank of idling big rigs and pulled into a spot set aside for four wheelers. He climbed out of his truck and cast a quick eye around the lot; Irene's Toyota was nowhere to be seen. She did say Emmy's.

Puzzled, he glanced over at the restaurant, which was lit up like a fishbowl this late at night. Most booths were empty, but as he squinted he noticed a woman with long blonde hair sipping coffee near the far wall.

He started for the doors, surveying the parking lot and surrounding streets.

He stepped through the doors, the air was overly air conditioned and thick with grease. The air-conditioning he could do without, but the grease only roused his appetite further. Heavy foods had never bothered him any; even before a route march in basic training he could chow down on sausages and fried eggs. What had his old Drill Instructor called him? Iron Gut?

Irene poked her head up from her newspaper and gave a quick wave. She wasn't the prettiest thing he had ever met, but she was a decent woman who loved baseball and gave him plenty of space, and that was all he asked for.

He returned her wave and walked over.

"Where's your truck?" He plopped into the red vinyl covered booth. "Broke down again?"

Irene shook her head. She was four years younger than him but tonight she looked a decade older, with pouchy bags under her eyes and long creases around her mouth. Forest had seen that face thousands of times before, in burnt out new recruits, overworked logistics staff.

_-Bosnian Refugees-_

"My truck is fine; I walked here."

Part of why he liked Officer Lindstrom in the first place was that she wasn't the nosey type. That first night they had slept together, he had woken her as he jumped out of bed at half past two. She knew without having to be told that he had troubles, and that those troubles were not going to be talked about. He would extend the courtesy, and not ask what would possess her to walk to a greasy spoon nearly four clicks from her house in the middle of the night.

"It's a nice night for it." He sipped the tall glass of ice water that had been waiting for him. Irene knew that had given up coffee when he had given up Army. "You order yet?"

"No, I was waiting for you."

"I appreciate it, course, you didn't have to."

"I know." She waved over at the waitress behind the counter. "You know what you want?"

It was a rhetorical question. He always ordered the same thing. Their waitress, Kathleen, took their orders and refilled Irene's coffee.

They made small talk as they waited for their chow, chatting about meaningless stuff, baseball, station-house politics. As they talked Forest couldn't help but see himself as he looked at her, and that was not a good thing.

"So, how's the job?" He figured that it was work that was bothering her. The question would give her the chance to talk about it if she wanted, but it was also vague enough to be deflected if she didn't.

Irene sighed and dropped her head in her hands. She was dressed in a bulky RPD pullover sweater and her hair was uncombed. The long scar on her left cheek that she normally covered with makeup was a dull pink stripe on her pale skin. She looked twenty four going on fifty.

"Ugh," She ran both hands through her hair. "Work's been weird lately."

Forest nodded, she was going to talk.

"Joe and I responded to a missing person's report on the sixteenth; it _seemed _pretty straightforward"

He leaned back as his girlfriend spent the next fifteen minutes going over a very peculiar sequence of events. A missing person's case out in the hills that ended with three mutilated corpses, killed in a way that had baffled an experienced Medical Examiner to the point where he had difficulty even estimating the time of death. At the moment all three bodies were still labelled as suspicious deaths pending further examination. Four days later, a single vehicle rollover happened within spitting distance from where the missing bodies were found. The driver was a no show but they found a ditch covered in blood that matched the blood taken from inside the car. They brought up a K9 unit to trace the scene, but all the dog did was piss on itself and play dead. They called in the other K9 team and the dog got spooked as well; its handler ended up with a decent sized bite on his hand as he tried to pull the mutt out of its kennel.

"Shoot, I've seen those dogs work. That one German Sheppard with the black muzzle is vicious as hell."

Kathleen brought over their food. Biscuits, sausages and country gravy for himself, toast and scrambled eggs for Irene. Forest attacked his plate with a haste common to most military men, while Irene picked at her meal as she continued on with her story.

"Joe's been keeping tabs on the Connor case even though Aaron Silverman is investigating. Apparently Geezer is getting all sorts of screwed readings with his tissue samples, he can't even get a blood type on some of the fluids collected on the oldest Connor. He's got a bunch of stuff over at the state crime lab in Portland, and they're having trouble with it, too."

Irene paused and nibbled the corner off a piece of toast.

"Another weird thing is the wallet we recovered at the eleven twenty-four. It's full of ID, belonging to some Russian professor living in New York on a work Visa. We tried to get a hold of the guy. There was no answer at his place, so we tracked down his work. They told us he's been at the company offices in Geneva for two months."

"What company does he work for?" Forest asked with a mouthful of food.

"Umbrella Pharmaceuticals," she answered. "They say he's been in Europe for two months, but we found a receipt for the Tree Top Hotel in his wallet, dated last month."

"That place in Latham?"

"Yeah, it's near the place that serves those fries everyone talks about." She took another bite of her toast. "So we know that he's been in the area."

"Or at least his wallet has been."

Irene nodded, her mood seemed to be improving. Forest wasn't sure if it was the chow, the coffee, or the talking that was doing it, though.

"We'll know tomorrow. I'm calling Umbrella's office in Geneva. God, I hope they speak English."

"Did you get an ID on the driver of that rollover?" Forest couldn't help but chuckle to himself. The military had been his one and only dream as a kid, but now look at him, discussing cases with his cop girlfriend. Life was full of surprises.

"The car was stolen that evening. We've got prints, but nothing came back on record. We found a pack of Canadian cigarettes in the car though, and we faxed the prints over to the RCMP so they can check their files for us. It's a long shot, but who knows."

"You're right Reen, it is a peculiar case." he said.

"Yeah, you guys should be the ones handling it, not Silverman. Aaron's a good cop, but he's narrow minded. He sees the Connor deaths as an animal attack, and the rollover as an unrelated accident. I don't know what he makes of the blood and the wallet. He's only on the Connor case. The rollover is still our file.

"But you figure that they're related? " Forest asked.

Irene nodded.

"Yeah I do, and so does Joe. Another strange thing is that we're pretty certain that there was only one occupant in the vehicle, but that clearing where we found the blood was covered in shoeprints. From at least four different pairs of shoes."

Forest paused mid-chew and frowned at her.

"Four people?" he asked.

"Yup,"

"And there was only one blood sample?"

"Yup,"

"That's downright contrary,"

"I know. Oh yeah, two more people went missing over the weekend, some high school kids who went swimming in Victory Lake."

"I heard about that one, Captain Marini figures that we'll end up taking over that file. You suppose it's related to that other stuff?"

Irene nodded again and sipped her coffee. "It's in the same area of the others, it only makes sense."

Forest agreed. The more he heard, the more certain he was that this was a case for the STARS. It would more than likely be Bravo Team that would handle it. STARS Alpha were still busy, code six, as Irene would say, assisting a back country Sherriff's department with a standoff against some whacked-out doomsday cult holed up in a bunker.

"Well, we're dog-eared to take over that missing person's case with the two teenagers. I'll let Enrico know what you figure, but knowing him, he's miles ahead of us. That fella's got horse-sense with that sort of thing."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it." She poked at her eggs. She was the slowest goddamn eater he had ever met. "You guys are done up in Lane county?"

"Yep, yesterday."

"You found that last body?"

Yes, they had; as a matter of fact it had been Edward Dewey and himself who had pulled out Kristy DeWitt's corpse. After two and a half weeks underwater she couldn't be recognised as anything remotely human. What a sick joke it was that they had been given her graduation photo as a reference. There was no way that the jellied grey mess that they had fished up could have once been that pretty girl, smiling brightly in her gown and mortarboard.

As they struggled to zip her into a body bag her abdomen had deflated, sending forth a spray of decomposed gasses. Forest had been raised on a pig farm; he had once stood next to a dozen bodies piled into a mass grave. Nothing compared to the ungodly stench that poor girl gave off, "A stink that would choke a maggot off a meat wagon," his Grand-Dad would have said.

He gazed at his plate. Biscuits and gravy had been his favourite meal since childhood, but it dawned on him that the skin on Kristy DeWitt's face had the same colour and consistency as the thick clump of white gravy, sausage and bread crumbs.

Forest stopped chewing. He could smell the girl's rotten guts again, though it was that mass grave in Srebrenica that he was seeing, twelve pairs of dead eyes staring up at him.

He felt his gorge rise and struggled to swallow what was surely to be his last bite of breakfast. It slowly, painfully scraped down his throat and he quickly washed it down with a big swig of water. He dropped his cutlery, tossed a napkin onto his plate, and pushed it away. He was likely finished with biscuts and gravy for a while to come.

"Yeah, me and Ed Dewey found it." Was he imagining the strangled sound to his voice?

_-You're a yellow son of a bitch, you know that? No better than that pilot, Vickers, on Alpha team-_

"That's good." Irene answered, and then thankfully dropped the subject.

He could still smell Kristy DeWitt wafting over from his breakfast plate. Hopefully the waitress would take it away soon.

Forest knew that he needed to get used to dead bodies if he was going to make it as a cop. There was a good chance that he would be pulling two more out of Victory Lake this week. He swallowed back his gorge again; he needed to get back into school, learn a trade or something. Plumbers and electricians made good money. Anything would be better than what he was doing for a living right now.

He forced his mind onto another subject, and settled on watching Irene as she daintily ate her breakfast. She wasn't a small woman by any means, but she moved with the grace of a whitetail deer. His folks would like her. She had been raised on a farm. She was hard working, God fearing; he had no doubt that they would overlook the fact that she was a Northerner.

"So I hear that y'all kicked the tar out the Raccoon Fire Department on Saturday." he said.

She glanced at him, and a devilish spark lit in her eyes.

"Yes we did." She leaned forward, beaming. "It was _glorious_!"

Forest chuckled and listened intently as his cop girlfriend laughed and explained in great detail the ass-kicking that she and her team had delivered to their rivals at the RFD.

He took in her features as she aped the hangdog expressions of the defeated firefighters. How her nose and eyes crinkled when she smiled. How that pink stripe on her cheek blended with her flushed and laughing face. How could he have thought she looked like an old woman? Hell, right now Irene could have passed for a giddy teenage girl.

Jesus he felt old, sitting across from her.

Kathleen came, bussed his plate and dropped off their bills. Forest scooped up both before she could grab hers. Irene had clearly had a rough couple of weeks at work and was torn up about something. Buying breakfast was the least he could do for her.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside in the early morning sunshine, struggling to hear each other over the rumbling diesel engines He had offered to give her a ride home, but she insisted on walking. Whatever suited her.

"Thanks for breakfast. I'll give you a call sometime." She bent forward and pecked him on the cheek; her lips tickled his whiskers.

Forest scratched the back of his neck and watched her walk away, backlit by the rising sun. He may have been unhappy with how his life had turned out, but he was grateful that he had met Irene. There weren't many women out there as fine as she was.

He took another look. The wind was blowing her hair back, and the angle of the sun was doing nice things for her curves.

Officer Irene Lindstrom may not have been the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

_-But she's pretty damn close- _

**Front Page Raccoon Herald June 26 1998**

**Search for missing youths ends in tragedy**

**Ben Bertolucci**

The four day search for missing teens Jody Albrecht (17) and Erin Hawthorne (17) both of Raccoon City came to an unfortunate end late yesterday evening as both bodies were discovered near an abandoned granite quarry four miles Northwest of Victory Lake.

A spokesman for the Raccoon Police Department stated that the search, headed by the RPD's Special Tactics and Rescue Service was shifted to the quarry site following a tip called in…

**Author's Note. Holy crap! I wrote a chapter about a canon character! Hopefully all seven Forest Speyer fans out there approve.**


	12. White Room

**June 27 1998 Raccoon City**

Edwin Thomas leaned forward and pushed his bifocals further up his nose. His eyes flicked from the fax clamped to his clipboard to the wound he was studying.

He licked his lips. His mouth had a tacky feel to it that had nothing to do with the autopsy room's cloying smell of bleach disinfectant.

"Good Lord,"

His heart sped up and thumped against the walls of his thin chest. Of course he recognised the palpitations for what they were. His sympathetic nerve system was simply triggering a small release of epinephrine into his bloodstream. It was an adrenaline rush, not some underlying cardiac concern, but that was small comfort at the moment.

He glanced down at the fax, fresh from the good folks at the State Crime Lab in Portland. "Forensic Dentistry, Methods of Comparison in Bite Mark Identification."

His eyes flitted once again from the detailed schematics on the pages, to the marks on the Erin Hawthorne's right forearm.

_- Elliptical shaped injury, check. Eight rectangular incisions, check. Four triangular incisions, check-_

He bent forward with a stainless-steel ruler and held it up to one the wounds.

_-Injury diameter ranging from between twenty-five to forty millimetres, check-_

"I can't believe I missed it."

"Excuse me, Doctor Thomas?" Miss Hutchens asked behind him.

He ignored her interruption.

-_The same physiology of attack as the Connor cases, the same absence of necrophagous insect activity. Likely the same cause of death, total hypovolemia due to massive trauma-_

He recalled the old adage "ignoring the elephant in the room." It effectively summed up what he had done. He should have recognised those bite marks on the Connor bodies, and instead he obsessed over the lack of insect activity on the corpses, the bizarre fluids and tissues taken at the scene. He had been suspicious with the defensive wounds on the young Connor girl, but suspicious wasn't good enough. Any coroner worth his salt would have noticed that elephant right away.

The young woman on his autopsy table was covered in human bite marks. No doubt the Connors were as well.

"Doctor Thomas?" Miss Hutchens asked again.

Edwin dropped the steel rule and turned to his assistant. In all honesty, he had forgotten that Elaine Hutchens had been in the same room as him.

"Y-yes?" he asked.

"You said something earlier, I didn't quite hear you." Miss Hutchens was a serious woman with a serious face. She was also an outstanding assistant, the best he had ever worked with.

"I…I was talking to m-myself," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "I…I…um…p-please get me the camera, I…b-believe Sergeant C-Carlson was doing some…work on it."

"Yes doctor." With a quick turn and a swish of plastic sheeting she was at the autopsy room doors, slipping out of her gloves and examination smock.

In reality, it was too early for photographs. He would finish his initial examination of Erin Hawthorne's corpse before he would need to take photos. However, he knew that the autopsy room camera was in the Ident Room upstairs, having a lens replaced. Miss Hutchens would need to retrieve it, and as a result he would be grated a merciful fifteen minutes of solitude.

Fifteen minutes, enough time to banish the childhood stutter that would invariably return to haunt him when he was stressed. Fifteen minutes to quell the tempest raging in his head: frustration, self loathing, confusion, his ordered thought processes all a disarray. It was precisely the same sensation he had suffered though during the Connor autopsies.

He was known by everyone on RPD staff, first by his nickname, Geezer (an unfortunate sobriquet bestowed early in his career due to his stooped posture, bald pate and thick glasses), but secondarily (and much more importantly) as a studious professional who was committed to the forensic and scientific processes. He had spent twenty-one years culturing the image of a judicious man, dedicated to logic and procedure.

The Connor investigations, now this Hawthorne girl, and likely the Albrecht boy, were black marks on his otherwise untarnished reputation. That he had yet to explain why corpse-eating insects had shunned these bodies was now glaringly less significant to the fact that he had missed crucial evidence proving that the three Connors were likely attacked by human beings. That human teeth may have caused the horrific trauma which had ended their lives.

That he had not noticed until now.

_-I'm getting ahead of myself-_

He shook his head and reset his glasses. There was a process to be followed here, he had begun Erin Hawthorne's autopsy, and would surely finish it before he would revisit the Connor bodies. He had clearly overlooked some monumentally important details with the Connor autopsies, and would not allow himself to make any more with Erin Hawthorne's.

Edwin turned away from the corpse on his examination table and gazed unseeing at the autopsy room's porcelain walls, gleaming like the heavens themselves.

He couldn't be entirely faulted for mistaking the wounds on the Connor bodies. The vicious storm which had passed through that evening had destroyed much of the physical evidence to lead him to believe that a murder had taken place. Logic stated that an animal attack was much more likely in the Arklay Forest than a homicide, involving nothing more than the teeth in the murderer's mouth. Besides, forensic dentistry was still in its nascent stages, and carrion eating birds had distorted many of the wounds. The one reason he had noticed the nature of Erin Hawthorne's injuries so quickly was that she had been submerged in nearly one hundred feet of water. Water which had been cold enough to slow the process of putrefaction. Water free of any carnivorous fish. Her corpse had been perfectly preserved, an ideal specimen for examination.

He let out a long breath.

_-I'm also rationalising. I need to stop trying to deflect the blame, from where it belongs- _

Edwin closed his eyes and let his mind digest the implications of his discovery. He would need to verify his findings, write up a death report for Hawthorne. He would autopsy the Albrecht boy and re-examine the Connors before informing Chief Irons and Detective Silverman.

It seemed as though the Raccoon Police Department was going to be investigating five homicide cases with the same, very unusual MO.

_-And that means it will be a very long day, and it will be longer if I keep wasting time-_

He opened his eyes and turned back to his subject: Erin Renae Hawthorne, Caucasian female, date of birth April thirteenth nineteen eighty one, one hundred and sixteen pounds at time of examination, naked as the day she was born, as lifeless as the surgical steel table on which she rested.

He refused to allow himself to see her as a person. She had stopped being a person the moment her heart, a heart that he would soon remove, weigh and dissect, had stopped beating. The corpse that had once been Erin Hawthorne was now simply a very complex puzzle. It was essential that he provide an accurate analysis of what had happened to her. He must solve the puzzle contained within her remains, for her family's sake, for the sake of his damaged reputation, and most important, for Erin Hawthorne's sake.

He sighed once more, walked to the shelf attached to the wall nearest the examination table and clicked on the video camera.

He returned to the body, tilting the head to the left and exposing the damage done to the anterior sternomastiod musculature. A large mass of flesh was missing. The trauma had been severe enough to shear through the external carotid artery.

Edwin shook his head, still struggling to accept what it was that he was seeing. The wound was elliptical in shape, and roughly forty five millimetres in diameter.

_-A human bite mark-_

In what was surely a moment of weakness, he permitted one hand to float up, and he gently stroked the top of her head, brushing the hair away from her alabaster face.

Just as he had done with Madison Connor.

"You…you p-poor thing."

**Author's Note. Hopefully this chapter comes off as realistic. I have never been in an autopsy room, and suck at Biology, so I'm sort of winging things here. All you sciencey types reading this can let me know if I got anything wrong and I'll be sure to change it.**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	13. She's So Cold

**June 27 1998 Raccoon City**

Vincent Shapiro turned away from the ungainly thing that sat hunched before him, and wandered to the helipad's perimeter. The hazy view in his new direction wasn't much to look at: unpainted cooling towers, a boxy warehouse, a trio of whitewashed smokestacks that looked like giant cigarettes.

Ugly city, it rained too damn much here.

Which direction was he facing? East? It was hard to tell with the low cloud cover blocking out the sky.

The warehouse doors faced west, so he guessed he was facing north.

He turned so that he was roughly facing south-southwest. He was staring at the helipad again, but took no interest in the activity taking place on it. He was, in fact, looking past the horizon, trying with all his might to see something just under six hundred miles away.

Lucille.

She was waiting for him, in Reno. If everything played out right she wouldn't have to wait much longer. He would make his run, catch a few winks in the staff dormitory and head out early tomorrow afternoon. He would be with her by suppertime.

Vincent smiled and tilted his head to the smoky late evening sky.

Tomorrow by suppertime. No more Umbrella bullshit, no more runs, just a fat wallet, and Lucille.

He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and closed his eyes. He could see her, those vicious curves, the desert sun glistening off her smooth skin. Less than twenty hours, and they would be together. He would be inside her, opening her wide and hearing her scream out over the Nevada landscape.

Every moment with her was ecstasy, pure ecstasy.

She was worth every penny.

Vincent opened his eyes, scowled as the lumpers buttoned up his chopper's cargo doors.

_-Even if I have to fly this ugly bitch to afford her.-_

Of course, Vincent didn't have much choice in the matter. Once he had committed to Lucille, he had forfeited the right to be picky about his work. Samson Air Cargo paid him top dollar to fly this pregnant whale of a chopper, and so fly he did, whether he enjoyed it or not.

One of the lumpers, Vincent didn't know his name but referred to him as "Double Cheese", began ambling over to where he was standing. Mister Cheese was simultaneously picking at his crotch and shuffling the cargo manifest into an unintelligible mess. He was a lazy, overpaid screw up, even by the low standards set by his peers.

"She's all loa-" Double Cheese began, holding out the manifest.

"Yeah." Vincent plucked the clipboard out of his stubby fingers.

For the sake of the cameras on the helipad and the Cro-Magnon standing in front of him, he went through the motions of checking over the cargo list. In reality he only cared for one number hidden amid the useless paperwork, the load's gross cargo weight.

_-There it is. Eight thousand nine hundred and seventy pounds? Those sons of bitches, that's less than three hundred off the max takeoff weight!-_

"You'll need to take her gentle tonight; there's some of them glass tubes tha-"

"Got it."

He scrawled a signature on Double-C's copy of the documents, and walked over to the chopper. Why the hell couldn't they add an extra trip in every couple of months and not bother loading him to the tits? The chopper was a washtub at the best of times. At three hundred under gross weight the thing screamed like it was dying and handled like a fat kid on roller skates.

He cursed under his breath, tossed the manifest onto the pilot's seat and crawled back out to began his pre-flight inspection. The Eurocopter AS332 was relatively new and well maintained. However Vincent was a stickler for routine pre-flights, especially when he was the one doing the flying.

_-Cowl covers off.-_

He had to admit that in reality he didn't have it all too bad. Sure, he flew heavy loads, but it wasn't a terribly long flight to URC Annex 2134. He didn't have to worry about his fuel levels unless he hit a nasty headwind.

_-No oil leakage from the gearbox, always good.-_

The warehouse and his drop point had cargo workers, so he wasn't lumping his own loads. He never flew passengers; he hated passengers.

_-Tail rotor blades look strait, rivets intact, bearings smooth.-_

All Samson Air Cargo -one of the Umbrella Corporation's many public faces- asked was that he be available three weeks of the month, and never discuss what he did for a living, or where he flew.

_-Rotor control rods free, cotter pins in place.-_

Umbrella and their fucking pointless secrecy. As far as he could tell, URC Annex 2134 was just some cruddy old mansion, built for no reason other than that Umbrella could afford it. It was likely another of old man Spencer's white elephants, that senile nut job.

_-Is that a cigarette butt? It is, for shit's sake! Those morons know that the helipad is FOD free. Like I want to lose a turbine because some lumper had a nic fit. I'd better let Double Cheese know about this.-_

Who was he kidding? He knew Umbrella was up to something less than leisurely in that mansion. He had seen some of the stuff that had been delivered there: weird sci-fi junk that looked like it belonged in Doctor Frankenstein's lab.

_-Pitot tube cover off.-_

Not that gave the slightest shit what they did. Umbrella paid him the princely sum of just under two hundred thousand dollars a year to fly cargo.

_-Master battery…on.-_

Enough money to afford Lucille's seven-hundred thousand dollar loan. Yeah, Umbrella's stupid little secrets were worth it.

_-Master avionics…on.-_

His fingers slid past a small photograph that was duct-taped in place just above the altimeter. It caught his eye. He smiled slightly.

_-Fuel boost...off.-_

It was his favourite photo of her, taken the day before last year's Reno air races. She was sitting by herself on the tarmac, sleek and sexy with her polished fuselage and Navajo red wingtips.

_-Throttle rolled to idle detent.-_

Lucille, she didn't care if he was gaining weight and going grey. She gave and gave, and never asked for anything he couldn't provide: routine maintenance, hangar fees, all peanuts compared to the thrills she granted.

_-Engine starter button in…engines lit up…fuel cut off depressed…RPMs up to thirteen hundred.-_

He finished his running-checks, requested airspace clearance from Arklay Regional Airport and heaved the Eurocopter into the air. The chopper groaned and creaked as gravity resisted its upward trajectory. Up, it climbed, through a layer of smog that smelled like a tire-fire put out with an old mattress, through the hazy cloud cover, finally breaking into the starry night sky. He cut the collective pitch and pushed the cyclic stick forward, transitioning to vertical flight.

Vincent had been making the URC Annex run for two years; he had the flight path committed to memory. As per orders, he would head south until he was fifty miles out of Arklay Regional's radar cone before switching northeast to the mansion, more Umbrella smoke and mirrors. In what felt like the blink of an eye he was nearing the mansion and dropping altitude.

Umbrella paid far too well for Vincent to ever consider breaking his terms of employment. However he had learned a few things about URC Annex 2134, namely that the mansion was completely isolated. Every thing the mansion needed was choppered in. The place didn't have any telephones either. Apparently the supervisor had a satellite phone locked in his office, and the cargo workers used a short range radio to hail in air traffic, but other than that, all communication was sent by paper. He wouldn't be surprised if the correspondences had some sort of self-destruct system built in.

Once the Nav-aid indicated that he was within two nautical miles of his destination, he switched the radio over to the mansion's frequency.

"2134, this is Samson. ETA five minutes, over."

A minute passed, and he frowned. He hadn't received a reply to his transmission.

"2134, this is Samson, over."

Bunch of screw ups, they knew his schedule. Where were they?

He nosed the 'copter through the cloud cover, into the drizzle and muck. The mansion was a half mile in front of him, barely discernible among the trees.

He cursed under his breath; there was still no reply from the loading crew. This had happened to him twice before. Someone on the ground was going to get their ass chewed out.

"2134, this is Samson. Come in, over."

His repeated radio transmissions yielded no response. He spent the next ten minutes circling the compound before finally losing patience and dropping to treetop level.

Did it seem darker than usual down there? No, it was just the thick cloud cover.

He swung the 'copter over the mansion and switched on his landing lights, washing the courtyard below in high intensity artificial daylight. Some poor sap standing near the fountain jerked his arms up, shielding himself from the sudden transition of day to night.

"Good morning, sweetheart!"

One last try before he landed uninvited.

"URC Annex 2134, this is Samson Air Cargo. Do you copy? Over."

No reply, the lumpers did not copy. He briefly circled over the unlighted helipad, convinced someone would clue into the gigantic flying thing hovering above their empty heads, but no avail. He cut the rotor collective pitch and eased the heavy 'copter down, digging deep into his mind for clever things to call the lackadaisical cargo workers.

Safely on terra firma, Vincent cut the throttle to idle. Any minute, the lumpers would spill out into the walled helipad, arms flapping, mouthing excuses, morons each and every one of them.

Any minute now.

Several "_any minute nows" _passed, and he was still alone, quietly seething in the pilot's seat. The only movement on the cargo platform were the rotor blades' elongated shadows, dancing on the cinder-block walls.

"This is just ridiculous"

He killed his engines and shrugged himself out of the cockpit. Loose grit crunch under his shoes, and he scowled again. The helipad was supposed to be swept clean. What the hell were the lumpers up to?

He started for the cargo dock's northwest corner, toward the long corridor that lead to the freight elevator and shipping office.

Why were the lights out?

"Hey, Dipshits! Quit playing hide and seek and unload me, already."

He poked his head into the darkened shipping office, reached in, and switched on the lights. The cluttered room flickered sickly fluorescent, and the ceiling fan buzzed, but not a thing moved. It seemed as though the lumpers had closed up shop.

"What, are you guys on freaking vacation?" There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Someone should have shown up by now; this was wrong.

Should he just leave?

He tried to imagine what his night would be like if he flew back to Raccoon City without unloading. Knowing Umbrella, he would likely spend the weekend at the facility, filling out one incident report after another.

Piss on that. He had somewhere else to be; he'd find someone here soon enough.

Vincent turned away from the office and started down the murky dark corridor. He wrinkled his nose; the hallway had the distinctive reek of fertilizer, mixed with rotten fruit. Was this something new?

He was now standing at the doors to the freight elevator, staring intently at the illuminated DOWN button that he had just pressed. It was the only source of light in the hallway. He'd take a quick peek downstairs. If he chanced upon somebody, he would be sure to ask a number of pointed questions, and demand to be unloaded. If he didn't run into anyone, he would beat it back to the chopper double time. Umbrella paid him well, but he wasn't about to stick his neck out too far.

"Typical, this stuff always happens on my last run."

Dejected, he looked away and fumbled for a fresh stick of gum.

It was then that his eyes fell on the white face, staring up at him not four feet away. He leapt back with his breath caught in his throat. His flight boots snagged on some loose electrical cables and he tumbled to the ground, thrashing like a winged bird.

"Holy shit!" He scrambled away on his elbows.

Vincent always had excellent eyesight. Even in the dim lighting he could see that the man was too pale to be alive. He could see the shiny pistol in one hand, the dark triangular spray of gore behind his head.

"Oh _shit_, oh _shit_, oh _shit_…" His mouth seemed to be on autopilot, automatically mouthing a chorus of expletives.

Mustering what little nerve he had, he inched ever closer to the man, who, judging by the grey uniform, had been one of the mansion's security personnel. It didn't take Detective Colombo to deduce that the guard turned his weapon on himself. The corpse's mouth was a caved-in black mess, and the muzzle of his Glock was syrupy with congealed blood. Vincent grabbed the dead man by his epaulettes; he must have been dead for a while, long past the effects of rigor mortis. Vincent released him, and the guard slid boneless down the wall; foul smelling jelly oozed out of his destroyed mouth.

"Oh shit…This is _bad_…oh…shit…"

As good as his eyes may have been, his ears, safely padded in his flight helmet and damaged by years of roaring aircraft engines, were less than stellar. He didn't hear the elevator's grated doors clang open, and certainly didn't hear the erratic footsteps approaching.

It was only when he noticed the shadow fall on him that he turned away from the dead guard.

His jaw dropped. He tried to scream, but found that his breath had been stolen away. All he could manage was a small squeak.

The thing that stood over him was a man, or at least it had been a man. It was dressed in lumper's coveralls, Vincent could read the ID tag pinned to one breast pocket, _R. Fazio, URC Logistics_. He could see the ragged hole where R. Fazio's nose should have been, he saw the blackened stump of a missing left arm. He could see the empty pits that had once housed R. Fazio's eyeballs. Vincent saw all these things, but his mind had yet to sum them up and tally them as a whole. The man standing in front of him looked dead, but the dead didn't walk, therefore R. Fazio was not dead.

Fazio groaned thickly and threw himself at him. Vincent remembered how to scream.

Vincent shrieked and beat at the thing. His bladder released in a warm gush. The Fazio thing grabbed at him with it's good hand and bared it's teeth. Fortunately, Vincent had enough presence of mind, and fast enough reflexes, to drop his head. Fazio's teeth thucked as they collided with Vincent's flight helmet.

_-Get it off! GET IT OFF!-_

He grabbed at the thing's arm. His hands slipped and sunk deeper than they should have, as waxy flesh slipped off the bone. Fazio attempted another bite, but at the last possible moment he jerked his head up, cracking the helmet into Fazio's lower jaw. A thick mess of blood and teeth waterfalled down Vincent's face. He screamed louder and shoved at the lumper with all his strength. The living dead man grunted and pitched back, and so Vincent used the moment to scramble away, only managing to snare himself in a tangle of conduit wires and the security guard's body.

"GET AWAY!"

Fazio was on him a moment later, fumbling at Vincent's flight suit with its skeletal hand. Its stump rested heavily on the wet spot directly over his crotch. The crushing agony stole away his breath.

In his frantic struggle, Vincent's right hand bunted away a cold metal object; it slid along the pavement, came to rest near his head. He stared into its dark, gore-encrusted muzzle for a split second, and then his left foot sent a bolt of pain up to the tip of his head. He hollered and jerked his head up. Behind Fazio, he could see a second dead man, with the tip of his flight boot clamped between its teeth.

"NO!"

Without registering what he was holding or what he was doing, he had the security guard's pistol in his hands. He squeezed the trigger twice, blinding himself with the long flash that leapt out of the dirty barrel. Fazio's face exploded in a dark smear and sprayed Vincent with gore. The animated corpse pitched over. With Fazio dead, Vincent had a clear shot at his other assailant. He fired a single round into the other man's chest, and the creature teetered back. The gun clicked empty.

Whimpering and shaking uncontrollably, he scrambled to his feet and tore down the hallway at a full sprint. He could see the 'copter ahead, his ticket out of this madhouse, it was such a beautiful thing.

He flew through the helicopter entrance, pausing only to latch the door behind him and to spew vomit down the front of his flight suit.

He crawled into the pilot's seat, immediately set to getting the chopper airborne.

"Come on…come on…"

A dark shape stumbled out of the gloom; it was headed toward him, swaying like a seasick sailor.

"Come ON!"

Lucille got knocked to the floor as he hit the fuel boost.

The shape gained detail. It became a man with a white face, and a dark smudge of blood on its coveralls.

"COME ON!…" The dead lumper was directly in front of him. He could see the gaping hole where he had shot him.

He hit the starter buttons; the turbines began to spool up.

The corpse pressed its pallid face against the chopper's windscreen. It was gnashing it's teeth like a trash compactor. Long ropes of bloody drool swung from its chin.

"COME ON YOU BIG UGLY BITCH!"

The lumper wailed in protest and beat at the Perspex, smearing brown gunk on the glass.

The engines caught, and Vincent jammed the throttle wide. The main rotor spun past one hundred percent. The 'copter began to dance and buck. A cacophony of breaking glass and crunching metal jangled from the cargo bay as his load was jostled about.

"GET IN THE AIR, YOU HEAVY FUCKER!"

The dead lumper was blown away from the rotor's blast of air. Vincent pulled back on the flight controls, and the Eurocopter jerked upward. It yawed sideways and nearly clipped the dock's retaining wall before he regained control. The chopper settled. Vincent let out a wavering breath and climbed to a safe altitude; he didn't bother sparing the mansion another glance.

The trip back seemed to take less than a minute, partly because he didn't bother with taking a circular route back, but also because he was flying as fast as the chopper would go. The seat of his pants had cooled to an uncomfortable puddle of shame, but at least his hands were steadier. Only now that he had partially regained his senses did he realise how badly he smelled. He needed to take shallow breaths from his mouth to keep from retching. Very little of the stench could be blamed on him, he smelled of decay. Those lumpers were dead, he didn't know how, but they were dead.

The chopper shook as Vincent's entire body shuddered.

Don't even think about it. Just get back to base, and get out of here.

The cockpit radio came to life. He startled at the sound, and the chopper lost a hundred feet of altitude. Something in the cargo area shattered and skittered along the floor.

_"Unknown Aircraft, this is Arklay Regional Tower. Identify yourself." _

Vincent had just crossed the Arklay River and was flying over Raccoon City's Cider District. He didn't bother responding to Arklay Regional's query. He would be long gone, finished with Umbrella by the time a reprimand came his way.

He was quickly drawing nearer the cigarette smokestacks.

_"Unknown aircraft, you have entered class C airspace. Identify yourself."_

"Screw you," he mumbled. His hands trembled in their filthy flying gloves. "I quit."

* * *

**A/N So...show of hands...who thought Lucille was a girl?**

**Pervs! lol.**

**Oh yeah, FOD is an aviation term for "Foreign Object Damage" Most runways, tarmacs, etc have strict controls about what can be dropped on the ground to prevent engine damage**

**Stay tuned**

**-C**


	14. Time

**June 28 1998 Raccoon City**

"All right, I understand."

Lawrence took the receiver away from his ear, and set it back in its cradle with the gentle care one would give high explosives.

_-I understand? Who am I kidding? I have no clue what to do. __Henry Sarton is dead, Albert Wesker is out of state, and I'm being eaten from the inside out-_

As if on cue, his stomach knotted tighter as an incremental pain began its slow burn, smouldering in his intestines and eating its way up into his esophagus. He rocked forward in his chair and clamped his eyes shut. Across the room, an electric clock buzzed as if it were attempting some sort of rudimentary communication.

The gnawing in his gut worsened; he doubled over, running both hands through his nest of uncombed hair. His chest tightened as if he was being zipped into a straight jacket; he could taste bile again. His breath was coming in tiny gasps.

_-Panicking only makes the pain worse, I need to calm down-_

Calm down, it sounded like an easy thing to do; a few squeezes of a stress ball, a brisk walk outside, simple, right? Sure, with his mind wholly occupied with the mansion, overrun with infected Umbrella staff, and the acid leaking from a hole in his stomach, calming down was about as simple as breathing underwater.

He wiped at his face and fumbled for the bottle, stowed away in the bottom drawer of his desk. Grabbing it like a priest would a crucifix, he poured a generous shot into his coffee cup, steeled himself, and downed the contents, wincing as it sluiced its way down his scorched digestive track.

He watched, nauseated, as the dregs swished in a pink ring at the bottom of his mug. Everything about Pepto-Bismol was unpleasant: the pastel colour, the vaguely soapy taste, the chalky texture. The stuff barely worked against stomach ulcers anyway. Was it the placebo effect he was hoping for, or was it some sort of latent masochism that kept him buying caseloads of that Barbie pink snake oil?

He bent forward again; the clock continued its mechanical nagging.

"Buzz, tick…it is now ten to three in the morning…buzz, tick…you are wasting time."

The dragon in his belly raged against its prison walls; his stomach felt like a ball of molten slag. He hugged his legs, praying that the Pepto-Bismol would deliver him from at least one of his afflictions.

_-Sixty seven staff, possibly all infected, plus the test subjects, plus the bio-organic weapons, plus secondary and tertiary infections.-_

His cheeks chafed against the rough corduroy at his knees. He grit his teeth as the agony in his midsection nullified all thoughts not related to the cessation of pain. Given the circumstances, this might have been an improvement

Gradually, the feeling of evisceration dulled to a light tugging of the bowels. He wheeled himself closer to his desk, slumped forward, and attempted to ignore Edgar Allan Poe's telltale clock.

"Buzz, tick…It is now two minutes to three."

He covered his ears, and groaned through clenched teeth. A film of Pepto-Bismol slicked along his molars.

"Buzz, tick… There is a viral outbreak at the Spencer Estate."

Without giving a second moment's thought, he was blundering to his feet. He needed to get out of this office, away from the hateful electric reminder of Umbrella's failure. He stumbled ahead, swallowing back acidic paste, claggy at the back of his throat. A neat pile of Xeroxed memos scattered to the floor as he made his retreat.

Out in the hallway: drowsy faces, featureless walls, electric clocks.

He doubled his pace, scrambling down a flight of stairs. He needed air; there was nothing but dust to breathe in these hallways. It was impossible to think under the x-ray glow of the fluorescent light.

On the main floor now, he could feel acid creeping into his mouth; the dragon was on full rampage. He stumbled ahead, bumping past a janitor, muttering an apology. It took strength nearly beyond him to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

-_Dust…electric clocks…fluorescent lights-_

He wanted to drop to the floor and ball up; instead he brushed past the security desk, nodding to the guard.

He was twenty feet from the doors; he had to restrain himself from sprinting. He worried that if he allowed himself to run, he would find himself behind the wheel of his Roadmaster, speeding toward city limits.

He worried that if he started running, he would never stop.

_-Almost there…five feet…three feet-_

A quick push and he was through the doors, careening toward the deserted smoker's bench.

Free from the suffocating confines of White Umbrella's Raccoon City headquarters, he allowed himself a full breath of air, taking in the stench of the industrial park: metallic rainwater, hot brakes, burnt paint. So many Umbrella staff complained of the acidic reek. Ordinarily he wasn't fond of the smell either, but tonight he took comfort in it. He been breathing in the tainted Northern Raccoon City air for fifty-two years; first as a boy growing up in the Milhaven District, later as Umbrella Chemicals' Production Manager, and now as White Umbrella's Raccoon City Program Coordinator. Perhaps tonight he needed the reassurance that some things remained as they were, so many years ago.

He sat on top of the picnic table and took another deep breath. His eyes climbed along the Umbrella Chemicals' shipping warehouse. They slipped past a helicopter, parked askew on the elevated helipad, and crawled up the chipped white generator smokestacks. At last they settled on the rugged horizon; a fuzzy black blanket of trees, barely visible in the gentle rain. If one were to follow his line of sight: over Firewatch Hill, past the Dixon Quarries, through the Westridge Tailings Fields, they would eventually find themselves at Umbrella's mansion. Although, he supposed that Umbrella could no longer claim ownership of the Spencer Estate. It seemed that sometime in the past two weeks, the T-Virus had claimed the mansion as its own.

He often compared the viral research White Umbrella conducted to the Manhattan Project. Both projects were horrifically dangerous, and dedicated to the destruction of human life, terrifying examples of the scientific process. The Manhattan project had ushered in a new era of warfare; bio-weaponry was bound to do the same.

He also believed that just as clean energy and radiation therapy had followed the atomic bomb, so would medicinal applications follow the bio-weaponry Umbrella was developing. A more cynical man would have said that self-deception was a wonderful thing, but truth be told, Lawrence Jenkins did not need self deception. He was aware that the things his organization did were wrong, that Umbrella was using human test subjects and violating every scientific ethic conceivable. He had told himself, more that once, that just as Robert Oppenheimer and Edward Teller had left legacies to be judged by society, so would he and the rest of White Umbrella.

It seemed that viral research had nuclear science bested in one respect. It had taken nuclear science nearly forty years to suffer its first major catastrophe; viral research had shaved a decade off that record. Nuclear research had its Chernobyl; viral research had its Raccoon City.

He wiped at his face and tried not to imagine the infected URC Annex researchers stumbling across Sherritt's Bridge, fanning out into the Cider District, spreading their disease.

Naturally, the BOWs would follow the infected staff. The MA-121 Hunter was ideal for semi-aquatic terrain; it would adapt very well to Raccoon City's sewers. Umbrella had learned the hard way that the MA-121 found human beings to be an excellent food source. If they followed the Arklay River, they would quickly find ample food, even with their wind-sprint metabolisms.

Why had it taken a low-rent helicopter pilot to be their canary in the mineshaft? The Arklay Research Facility Director had missed three consecutive sat-phone calls; locals had been turning up dead within a few miles of the mansion. Had they been so blinded by their hubris that they had believed a massive outbreak was impossible? If so, then why had Umbrella planned so many elaborate contingency plans to deal with this very fear?

_-More important, why is the man in charge of implementing those plans doing nothing?-_

It made no sense. There should be squadrons of helicopters roaring overhead. His two story office should be thrumming with activity; the UBCS (White Umbrella's Army for hire) should be mobilized and headed toward the hot zone with every weapon available. Why was Albert Wesker stalling their deployment?

"Mister Jenkins?" a familiar voice called.

He raised his head, gave a slow wave, but did not rise. The beast in his stomach had bedded down; he was unwilling to rouse it from its uneasy slumber.

"Over here," he said.

A series of hasty footsteps followed his reply. Soon, Annette Birkin was standing in front of him, tapping one foot.

He gazed at her and rubbed his eyes. It had taken him six minutes to get dressed and into his car. With her hair matted and rumpled dress slacks, Missus Birkin seemed to have shaved a few minutes off his mark.

"You didn't answer your beeper," Her voice had an unfamiliar strident pitch, but it held as steady as a surgeon's hands. She was an ideal choice for the Underground Research Center Facility Director.

"I left it on my nightstand, have a seat." He gestured at the picnic table's wooden top.

"Did you call Wesker?"

He nodded, and shuffled over as she sat down.

"What did he say?" she asked.

He was helpless to restrain the laughter that escaped him, though it was more of a high pitched whistle than a laugh, likely triggered by the instinctual fight or flight section of his brain.

"He told me to do nothing." he said, the dragon flicked its tail and stretched.

"_What_?" The table creaked as she shifted to face him.

"He told me to do nothing. He figures that he'll be back from Montana in a few days. He told me that he'll take care of things when he returns."

She shook her head; her eyes were puffy to the point of looking chemical burnt. Under the jaundiced glow of the building's arc-sodium lights, she had the waxy pallor of a medical cadaver.

"That makes no sense," Her foot drummed on the picnic table's leg. "he must have given you _some_ sort of instructions?"

"Well, yes, if you could call them instructions." Another nervous laugh. "He wants me to call the RPD Chief of Police, apparently he's on Umbrella payroll. I am to tell him to hold off on any investigation into the murders around the Arklay facility, and to keep STARS Bravo off the case. Tomorrow the RPD will issue a press statement, informing the townspeople to stay out of the woods due to unusual animal attacks. Once Wesker gets back, he'll lead both STARS teams in, retrieve the project data, and set the facility self-destruct."

_-It's a stupid plan. He has no idea how long the standoff in Montana will take to wrap up. That one in Waco lasted nearly two months. The virus would be in Raccoon City by then-_

Annette tapped her foot. The steady padding of rubber on wood had begun to sound quite a bit like the buzz and tick of an electric clock. His gut twisted around itself and he ground his teeth.

"Will that work?" she asked.

"I don't know, I'm thinking of calling Vladimir."

Anette chewed on his words for a moment before replying.

"I wouldn't do that," she said, "Wesker is the Security Director. It's his call to make,"

"No, it's not." He fished out a wrinkled memo from his back pocket and read it aloud. "White Umbrella, Facility Breach Directive, Revision 43, 12/22/91...in case Regional Security Director is unable to carry out level one containment measures, adjutant is to contact White Umbrella Security Director, Sergei Vladimir. Containment orders will be iss-"

"I've read the security protocols." Tap, tap, went her foot.

"Then you know what I'm supposed to be doing," he said.

"Yes, I know, but there could be a matter of interpretation in those instructions." Tap…tap…"The directive states that Vladimir is to be contacted if the Regional Security Director is unable to carry out his duties. It seems that that Wesker believes that he can contain this, discretely."

"So, you think I should sit on my hands?" he asked.

"It's not my decision, but, yes. Wesker is no fool; he knows the T-Virus' infectivity better than most, and he's not one to take unnecessary risks."

He couldn't disagree with that statement. Albert Wesker, Raccoon City Security Director, seemed more machine than man, extremely competent, free of any sentimentality. With his dark clothes and black sunglasses, he looked like that killer robot, the Terminator.

"Anyway, I came up here to tell you that we ran some cultures on the blood that pilot brought back on him. The Arklay Facility staff are infected with T-Basal."

He breathed a sigh of relief; it was the first bit of good news he had heard all night. T-Basal was one of the less contagious strains of the T-Virus, primarily used on reptilian bio-weapons. It was slow to spread, difficult to transmit among mammals.

"That's a relief. How's our canary doing?" he asked.

"Who?"

"The pilot,"

"Oh, him. He's frightened…angry," she said.

"Infected?"

"No, he seems clean."

"Lucky guy,"

"I suppose,"

"Did he tell you if he saw any BOW's loose?" he asked.

"No, all he saw was infected staff."

"That's good,"

"You could say that," She pushed herself off the table; her restless foot splashed in a shallow puddle. "I need to get back downstairs. William wants to go over those cultures."

William Birkin was White Umbrella's Head Virologist, and Annette Birkin's obsessive-compulsive husband. Lawrence wondered how he was taking the news; given his Prima-Donna personality, probably not very well.

"Let me know if you find anything else." he said.

"Of course," She gave him a brief pat on the shoulder and then turned away. Her lab coat billowed out as she hurried back to her underground kingdom.

He bent forward and massaged his temples. Those victims in the woods were not the Eastern European death row inmates Umbrella used as test subjects; they were not the research staff, who knew the dangers of their work, and were paid handsomely for it. He had known the Albrecht boy's parents, Gary and Linda; they had been the photographers at Julie's wedding. Benjamin Connor was a local realtor, who had ads all through town.

Lawrence got to his feet. The outbreak needed to be contained immediately, Wesker be damned. The people dying in those woods were his neighbours and co-workers; he would not allow the entire city to be sacrificed to suppress Umbrella's dirty secrets.

He had made it up the stairs when the dragon stirred once again, and his nerve began to falter. If he alerted Vladimir there would be no way that Umbrella could conceal the presence of their mercenary army. Even if the outbreak was contained, all work done at Raccoon City would be halted and relocated to a more secure location. Albert Wesker, and Annette Birkin, by proxy of her genius husband, were near Gods in the Umbrella hierarchy, while he was a local, a facilitator. The best case scenario would likely involve Umbrella dumping him as a failure. Inversely, the worst case scenario would involve Umbrella dumping his body down a deep hole. Albert Wesker had told him to stall for time; he would be ignoring one of Wesker's direct orders if he called Vladimir.

Of course, the White Umbrella security directives had been penned at Sergei Vladimir's desk, and Vladimir was not a man to be disobeyed.

Lawrence swallowed back another mouthful of acid as he envisioned the giant, one-eyed Russian looming over his desk. Vladimir, with his grey buzz cut, his grey suit, his grey teeth. He could already hear his accented English. He could see the mirror flash of metal, could feel the razor hone of Vladimir's cherished NR-40 combat knife slice into his belly, deflating his lungs and spilling his necrotic guts to the floor.

It was no longer a question of what was right; it was a question of who he feared more: Wesker, the machine, or Sergei, the bear.

He stepped into his office, skidded a guest chair along the tiles, using it as a stool to unplug that despicable clock. The time in this room would read three forty-six until the crisis was over, or he was in his grave.

With a heavy sigh, he dropped into his chair, fished out the bottle of Pepto-Bismol and drained it in one gulp.

_-The Bear, or the Terminator? Pick your poison-_

He ran a raw tongue along his teeth and picked up the phone; the receiver felt like a gun at his temple. He dialled a local number, and pulled the trigger.

**A/N Okay, so I gave Sergei Vladimir a haircut. I'm sorry for the unnecessary canon deviation, but with his Bon-Jovi hair, Nazi overcoat and collector's edition wizard's knife, ol' Sergei was just a little too manga for my Western sensibilities.**

**A huge thank you to Maiafay, Beta reader extraordinaire! (and to you, reader extraordinaire)**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	15. Hush Now

**June 28 1998 Raccoon City**

It had taken less than fifteen minutes for Edwin Thomas to decide that pinching a cigarette from Dave Ford was a bad idea. At first he had simply noticed a slight tremor in his hands and a bit of cotton-mouth: easily dismissible as jitters brought about by the caffeine fuelled marathon of autopsies he just preformed. But, when the walls of Irons' waiting room began their slow carousel, and his head started to hum and throb along with his accelerated heartbeat, he knew that he was in for one whopper of a head rush.

He hadn't touched a cigarette in two years, and he sucked that Marlboro straight down to the filter. What was he thinking?

He slumped against the panelled wall and closed his eyes. If anything, the vertigo worsened and so he snapped them back open and wiped at his soggy face with a Kleenex.

_-Stupid, stupid, stupid- _

He was a doctor. He knew the mortality rates of lung cancer, one hundred and fifty deaths per one hundred thousand Americans a year. He had dissected a lung, malformed and tar black with squamous small-cell carcinoma. What sort of self-destructive maniac would willingly destroy his respiratory system with cigarette smoke after witnessing first hand the mutant tissue spawned by nicotine inhalation?

"Doctor Thomas, are you all right?" A female voice, muffled by the tuning-fork reverberations between his ears, asked.

He turned to Irons' secretary and attempted a smile. He had no doubt that it looked absurd on his twitching, death mask of a face.

"I'm…f-fine, j-just a bit of heartburn,"

Miss Douglas' flawless features crinkled into a frown. Like every other woman that had sat at Irons' reception desk, she was young, blonde, and exceptionally pretty. Irons often joked that expensive art and leggy receptionists were his two weaknesses in life. Most RPD staffers took his tongue in-cheek chauvinism in stride though, so long as he treated the female officers equitably. Besides, there were far worse vices to have.

_-Such as smoking-_

"Would you like some Rolaids?" She began rifling through her desk. "I always keep some at work in case-"

"That's…all right." He waved a dismissive hand. If anything touched his lips he would surely be sick. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Her frown deepened. "You don't look very-"

"I'm fine." He attempted a chuckle; it sounded strained, even to him.

He broke contact with Miss Douglas' big doe eyes, pushed up his glasses and squinted at his wristwatch. It read five after seven; Irons was running late.

"Did Chief Irons tell you if he was going to be late today?"

Miss Douglas glanced down at her daily planner.

"Not that I'm aware of. He should be here any minute. You weren't pencilled-in. Was he expecting you?"

At least this one knew what she's doing.

He shook his head, upsetting his skewed sense of balance. "He's not expecting me, I'll wait."

"All right. Are you sure that you wouldn't like some Rolaids though?"

_-Please, just stop talking to me- _

"I'm sure,"

He raked a hairy tongue along his front teeth, dropped his head into his hands, and took a series of deep breaths in attempt to flush the nicotine from his system.

He was an intelligent man, scholarly, self-disciplined. People like him weren't supposed to smoke. He deserved to suffer for his indulgence.

_-Maybe so, but it was worth it-_

It certainly had. The results of his thirty-six hour work day lay beside him in a thick manila folder: five autopsies with the same cause, and mechanism of death, blood loss due to trauma caused by human teeth.

After he had noticed the evidence on Erin Hawthorne's corpse, he could see it everywhere. It could be likened to one of those three-dimensional posters that were so popular a few years back. At first all you would see was Jackson Pollock paint splotches, but if you were to stare at it just right, just once…pop!…there it was, and you were incapable of un-seeing it. He was seeing human bite marks everywhere: on Madison Connor's arms, Benjamin Connor's neck and back, on Darius Connor's upper torso, all over the Albrecht boy.

The invigoration of his discovery, and the overpowering need to undo his past mistakes trumped all other priorities. He hadn't eaten in a day and a half. He couldn't even remember when he last used the washroom. He sustained himself on the night shift's burnt coffee and his own compulsion as a perfectionist. Once the caffeine lost its effect, cigarettes were next in queue. In retrospect, he was grateful that he would only need one smoke to tide him over. Once he briefed Irons, he would take a taxi home and sleep the rest of the day away, a redeemed man, in at least his own eyes.

And he would never touch another cigarette again.

He found that the deep breaths helped immensely, although Miss Douglas did keep a suspicious eye on him, and by the time Irons lumbered through the office door he was actually feeling alert and clear headed. Nicotine, that wondrously fatal stimulant; deadly, addictive, but effective.

He snatched the folder into his hands and rose to intercept.

"Good Morning, Brian,"

Chief Irons jerked at the sound of his own name and took a defensive step back through the doorway. Edwin and Irons worked alongside one another for just over twenty years. Not once in those twenty-one years had he seen Brian Irons with stubble on his cheeks. Who was this unshaven, cow-licked impostor?

He cast his insomniac eyes at Edwin and straightened his tie.

"You're here early." he mumbled, before turning to his receptionist and popping on his "Chief Irons" smile: a double row of capped teeth that flashed white like Edwin's autopsy room wall tiles.

"Good Morning, Suzanne,"

Miss Douglas chirped a smiling good morning and handed over a thick stack of memos.

The Chief glanced back at Edwin, ushered him into his office with a single wave of his giant hand.

"Come on in, Ed,"

Edwin always felt that stepping into Irons' office from the reception area was like travelling back in time. Much like Edwin's own office, the reception room was an exercise in functionality: pressed-steel cabinets, task lighting, cork bulletin boards and reams of neat paperwork. The only display of whimsy was a potted cactus and a solitary photograph housed in a garish plastic frame. By contrast, Irons' office was something out of a late nineteenth century British manor: walnut panelling luminous under chandelier light, antique furniture soft and fragrant with cigar smoke and lemon oil. Extravagant, pretentious, these words did not do the room justice. Edwin never felt entirely at ease surveyed from every angle by Irons' many hunting trophies and framed portraits. He would have much preferred to have briefed Irons in his own, utilitarian, work space, where he was the examiner and not the examined.

"You look awful," Irons said, and cracked his "Brian" smile: a wink, a half-smirk and a sliver of teeth. Very few people were privileged enough to see the elusive "Brian" smile.

"I _feel _awful." He clicked the door shut behind him. "I've been up all night, going over Silverman's file."

"You need to learn how to delegate, Ed. Stop being such a martyr or you'll end up working yourself into an early grave."

"Miss Hutchens had plans for the evening. Besides, this case is interesting."

Irons barked laughter. "That's one word for it,"

I've got some news for you,"

Irons paused mid stride; the "Brian" smile disappeared under his moustache.

"It must be important, if you were waiting for me." He slumped into his leather wingback chair and gestured for Edwin to sit as well. He did not require the prompt, apparently he had not sufficiently recovered from the nicotine assault to remain standing for very long.

"It _is _important, Brian. I've finally got some answers for you, about the cause of death."

He wasn't sure what reaction he expected from Irons, but it certainly wasn't the deflated grimace of resignation that his face had crumpled into.

"Well, that's good," he said, sounding like it was anything but, "let's hear it."

Edwin laid out the five autopsies like a Vegas blackjack dealer and reset his bifocals. "Determining the cause of death was never the problem, as you already know. It was the _mechanism _of death that had me stumped…"

He stated the facts with naked honesty, not bothering to gloss over his carelessness with the Connor deaths. Irons deserved the truth and as many straight answers as could be given, granted the unusual condition of the bodies. He could still not explain the absence of corpse-eating insects, or the abnormal toxicology results, but with any luck the State Crime Lab's Forensic Entomologists and DNA lab would provide clarification.

He went on with his summary, half-concerned by Irons' increasing pallor, the way the big man seemed to be sinking into the supple leather of his office chair.

"…I know I haven't got all the pieces fit together yet." He cleared his throat, uncomfortable by the Irons' lack of expression. "But at least we can safely label the deaths as Homicides."

Silence from Irons. On the other side of the door, Miss Douglas' voice trilled to someone on the telephone.

Erwin cleared his throat again as Irons' red gaze wandered the office.

"I figured that you would want to know ASAP. I'll let you tell Detective Silverman."

A low rumble echoed off the walls as Irons opened a desk drawer. Cadaver mute, he uncapped a small aluminium tube, withdrew the slender brown cigar contained within and pinched it between his lips. On the other side of the door he could hear Miss Douglas' printer chew out pages of notes.

"Did I tell you that I saw Ethan the other day?" Irons asked, head bent to light the cigar.

Edwin was taken aback by the question.

_-What does my wayward son have to do with this conversation?-_

"No, you didn't," Edwin said.

"How has he been doing lately?" A gauze of rich smoke obscured Irons' face.

"He's doing well, I suppose. He's been driving a forklift at Umbrella Pharma for a few years now. He's living on his own, again."

Irons nodded and blew out another plume of smoke.

"Good to hear,"

A short pause. Miss Douglas answered her phone. Irons drew on his cigar.

"We've known each other a long time, Ed, and I feel like I owe you a certain amount of candid information, so I'll level with you on this. There's a lot of influential people following Silverman's case, and I'm under a ton of pressure to keep this thing quiet until Aaron can get some explanations as to what's happening in those woods. If I let you release these autopsies with homicide listed as the COD, the media would tear this precinct down carping for answers. Hell, it's already a circus. That wop reporter, Bertolucci is sniffing every ass he can cram his nose into. If word got out, it would be a nightmare, and I'd be on the line for all of it.

Edwin's cotton mouth returned with a vengeance. He blinked dry eyes at Irons. "What are you saying, Bri-"

"I need you to stall on these death reports, Ed ." He dropped the cigar into his ashtray and wiped at his forehead. "Label them as animal attacks, or drowning, or-"

_-What? No!-_

"Brian, I…I…_can't _…I-"

"It'll only be for a few weeks. A month, at most,"

Edwin shook his head, he couldn't. Falsifying a death report was in direct violation of the National Association of Medical Examiner's Article Ten ethics. It was a class-C misdemeanour. He would be hauled in front of a review board; he would have his medical licence revoked.

_-Thirty days in jail, a two thousand dollar fine-_

"No…They'll…they'll _find out_. Portland has, c-copies of all my files. They'll find out…and…and it'll r-ruin my career,"

Oh, how he hated the weak desperation in his voice, his ridiculous, cowardly stutter.

_-Be a man, say no. The families deserve the truth- _

Irons leaned over his desk, bloodless-white and fever-sweaty. He looked like he was having a myocardial infarction.

"What do you think would have happened if Internal Affairs found out that I dismissed those drug charges against Ethan?"

Edwin's blood ran cold. That had been over five years ago, a favour for a long time friend.

_-Favours are the currency of Law Enforcement, you fool. You knew that this day would come.-_

Damn Irons; damn his idiot son, that useless delinquent. He knew then that allowing the charges to be dropped would come back to haunt him. Not content to ruin his own life, Ethan was determined to bring his father down with him.

He felt his cheeks burning, his bottom lip trembling. What choice did he have?

_-You, slippery bastard-_

"F-fine,"

Irons sighed and creaked back in his chair. He grabbed his cigar and took a long puff.

"Thanks, Ed. You know that I hate to do this to you,"

_-Then don't do it. Tell your puppet masters that that justice comes before politics-_

Edwin didn't answer; he grunted to his feet and began shuffling his reports back together. He needed out of this office, he couldn't bear to face the opportunistic lackey that had once been Brian Irons.

"Ed." Irons grabbed his wrist; his hand covered half Edwin's forearm. "You can always petition to re-examine the bodies later. We _will _get these guys."

_-Let go of me-_

"S-sure, Brian,"

Irons released him, leaned back, and sutured on that loathsome "Chief Irons" smile.

"Great!" He pinched the cigar between his teeth. "We'll go golfing once things have settled down."

Edwin nodded. His co-workers had chosen a fitting nickname for him. He was a geezer, a tired old man, pathetic.

"S-sounds good,"

* * *

**Front Page Raccoon Herald June 29 1998**

**Raccoon Police Department releases report in mysterious deaths.**

**Ben Bertolucci**

The Raccoon Police Department Coroner's office released a report early yesterday afternoon stating that a wild animal attack was likely responsible for the deaths of Darius, Benjamin and Madison Connor, discovered June 16 as well as the deaths of Jody Albrecht and Erin Hawthorne, discovered June 26.

RPD Media Liaison Officer Patrick Davies advices Raccoon City residents to keep out of the twenty mile tract of woodland Between the north shore of Victory Lake and County Road 128, and are working alongside Forestry Service workers in identifying and locating the animals, likely a large predatory-

**Authors Note: I never could see the hidden image in those stupid 3-D posters.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	16. Pacing the Cage

**June 30 1998 Skene River**

Laura hoisted the paddle out of the water and placed it sideways along the canoe's narrow gunwales. She stretched, but kept a dreamy eye on the crystal drops that beaded on the varnished oak and splashed down to their source of origin. Everything returned to its roots. Just as the clouds above would condense into rain, which would fall and replenish the river that they rode upon, so would she die, be returned to the ground, and give new life to the soil in which she was interred.

The canoe bobbed underneath her, small waves slapped along the bow. Somewhere in the expanse of pine trees a hawk screeched. The scene was a lullaby, the canoe a gentle mother, rocking her to sleep. The sun disappeared behind a transient rain cloud, lights out, bed-time.

A sad smile, she would sleep soon enough.

She shook the thought away and returned focus to the currents of pain that coursed through her body. She leaned back, arching her spine and feeling the successive click of her vertebrae. The ghosts of sutures tugged hot filaments through her chest.

"You okay up there?"

She took a breath of river musk and turned toward the boat's stern. Jer's face was a silhouette under the brim of his Tilley hat; his glasses flashed like examination lights.

"Yeah, just stretching,"

He straightened the boat with a series of awkward J-strokes. She was the better canoeist; it angered her that she no longer had the strength to sit at the stern.

"You wanna take a break?"

Though her body yearned for nothing more, her will to continue held fast. The real world waited for her on those rocky banks, while on the gentle water, time seemed to flow backward. In the canoe, she was not Laura Houseman: twenty-nine year old Architectural Designer, and skeletal wreck. Laura Houseman did not take a week's unpaid vacation to go camping with her husband; she would not shirk off her physiotherapy or counselling. Could Laura of the Skene River still be Laura Newton: girl of unspecified age, where careers and certification and chemotherapy were not things one fretted over?

"No, I'm good." She plucked at the blisters below her fingers.

"You sure?"

A prickle of annoyance. "When aren't I sure about anything?"

"Just asking," he paused, "you want some water?"

"I have water,"

"A granola bar?"

"No thanks,"

"A sandwich?"

"Jer…" She set her features to the look of impending damnation and hellfire_. _

Before her anger bubbled to the surface. she noticed that the lower half of Jer's face was cracked into a mischievous grin. She dropped the scowl and returned his smile.

"I'm a big girl. I feel okay."

She shouldn't fault him. Any decent person would worry about her, and Jeremy Houseman was a very decent person.

"Some Gatorade?"

_-Irritating, but decent-_

She palmed a handful of water at him. He cursed and wiped at his glasses.

"You're mean,"

"I'm allowed to be mean." She spun, dipped the paddle back into the water and steered the boat straight.

Glancing up at the sun, she estimated that it was roughly three in the afternoon. She was loath to admit, even to herself, that she didn't have much stamina left. After supper they would probably have to set up camp.

The treatment board assured her that the fatigue and malaise were temporary side-effects of the drugs and radiation. At what point did a symptom stop being temporary? Was it more than sixteen months?

She peered over the gunwale; a stranger's wavering face peered back. Who was this ossified wraith, of eyeless visage and frieze of dark hair? Laura Newton, girl of unspecified age, had a round face, large eyes and poker-straight hair the colour of shellacked maple. The woman in the water could not be her, it was impossible.

She cast her eyes to the tree line, ignoring the water harpy. She was free from its grasp so long as she remained in the dry safety of the canoe.

"So, you never finished your story," Jer said. "How did you hear about Victory Lake Campground?"

She stopped paddling and leaned back, thankful for the respite.

"You remember Kurt Visser?"

"The guy who cheated on you in college?"

"Yeah,"

"The bastard, what about him?"

"He had family in Raccoon City. When we were dating, we were going to canoe from Cline Falls to Victory Lake and get his uncle to drive us back."

A pause, Jer chuckled.

"So, you mean that our first vacation together is based on plans you made with another guy? I hope that you're not pining for a lost love, here.

She could tell by his tone that he was not serious; she decided to play along.

"Well, you know how I feel about tall, blond guys, who love the outdoors."

Another chuckle. "Yeah, you've been with enough of them."

She gasped, and spun in her seat, look of impending damnation and hellfire firmly affixed. The canoe listed sharply; water slurped over the low gunwale.

"That is not even _close _to funny!" She jabbed an accusatory finger toward him.

Jer attempted a laugh. He caught sight of her expression and his nervous titter sputtered into nothingness.

"In what _universe _does someone say that to their wife? For the record, Kurt Visser is dead to me. I knew that it would take about three days to go down this river, and that there was a nice hotel in Latham we could stay in. Although, now I'm considering separate rooms."

Jer, even after five years' marriage he was capable of near autistic levels of thoughtlessness. He spent far too much time in front of a computer screen and not nearly enough interacting with other adults.

"Come on, Figgie," His infuriating reconciliatory tone begged her to send a fresh salvo of barbed comments. "I was just teasing."

_-Idiot, asshole-_

Another accusatory finger, "You have lost your speaking privileges." She turned her back to him and paddled with renewed vigour.

Five minutes of silence passed. A large fish broke the water in a silver half-moon.

"Laura?"

No response.

"I'm sorry,"

A swarm of gnats haloed her; she swatted an idle hand at them.

"I just…hey, look at that."

An old tactic, clumsy attempts at diversion. She would not take the bait; the flies and mosquitoes held more interest.

"Seriously, what is that?" The canoe canted as he shifted up onto his haunches.

_-Okay, fine-_

"What is _what_?"

"That," He had one pipe-thin arm outstretched.

She followed the line cast by his finger, into the blanket of trees. An obsidian peak thrust out of the forest, the upper edges bordered in wrought iron lace. She shaded her eyes, could make out the regular jut of dormers, each with a single muntined window which glinted sightless in the sun.

She steadied herself and stretched out for an improved view; the canoe lolled erratically.

_-Slate roof, ashlar masonry, plantation style design. Wait a minute...I know this place-_

She balled her hands into fists, another wonderful side-effect of chemotherapy, memory loss.

After what seemed like an hour's worth of dredging the murky depths that were her damaged memory banks, she managed to attach a name to the approaching building.

_-George Trevor-_

Her fingernails dug into chafed palms; she felt near tears. At one point in her life she had known very well that George Trevor, architect and eccentric, had completed his final oeuvre somewhere in the Arklay Forest. Her main lamentation in regards to the philandering Kurt Visser had stemmed from the knowledge that she would not be travelling into the forest and chancing upon a piece of architectural history.

She stood up in the canoe, Jer called out in alarm.

Laura had known these things, and they had slipped into the vortex. How many other parcels of her life had chemo-brain stolen from her?

"Laura!"

"What?" She didn't bother facing him.

"You're gonna tip us. Sit down."

She slid to her knees, hands on the gunwales. She kept her eyes on the nearing mansion, and gradually, anger gave way to a childlike enthusiasm that she though had been lost forever.

Her lips twitched into a small smile. George Trevor's last commission, lost and forgotten, sat less than a mile from her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's the Spencer Estate. One of my favourite architects designed it."

"Really? It looks older than dirt."

Jer was dead-on with his assessment. The building was less than fifty years old but it smacked of something out of the sixteenth century. It was a masterpiece, an astonishing display of Trevor's passion for Gothic design.

"It was built in sixty-eight."

"No kidding?"

"Nope, it's newer than our house. George Trevor was really influenced by the Gothic revival. He was huge in Europe, rebuilding cathedrals after the war. And he _hated _the modernist movement. He wrote a bunch of articles in Architecture Today calling Walter Gropius and the rest of the Bauhaus a bunch of visionless commies."

"Commies?" Jer chuckled.

"It was a big deal at the time. Anyway, a British Lord hired him to design this mansion, his American home. He vanished a few months after it was finished."

"Who, the Brit?"

"No, Trevor, along with his family,"

"No way?" He sounded genuinely interested. It was a rarity for a subject not about software design, video games or college basketball.

Laura craned her neck; a kaleidoscope of stained glass adorned a second storey wall. She grinned, the Spencer Estate flew in the face of the functionalist aesthetic that was so cherished by the majority of post-war designers. It was a pity that the late Gothic revival had lost steam after Trevor's disappearance. the Spencer Estate was doubtlessly his forgotten legacy.

"The place looks creepy," Jer said.

"It's abandoned,"

"Already?"

"Yeah, that Lord, Spencer. He lived in it for about five years, and then moved back to England."

"He didn't sell it?"

She shook her head. "Nope, he just locked the doors, and…moved away."

"Man, what a waste." She could hear the tsk-tsk in his voice. If there was one thing Jer despised, it was the fickle expenditure of money.

"Tell me about it, it's beautiful."

There was a sudden pronounced thrashing at the canoe's stern, the bow veered toward shore. She swivelled backward; Jer was paddling like a man possessed.

"What are you _doing_?" She spun to the right and began a series of frantic draw strokes in effort to straighten the boat.

Jer laughed and doubled his efforts, easily overpowering her.

"We're goin' ashore, Figgie!"

"What?…why?" She continued her struggle to steer the boat downriver; white foam churned alongside the bow deck.

"We're going to check out the mansion."

_-Is he crazy?-_

"No… we can't!"

"Sure we can,"

"No…Jer…STOP!"

The insane paddling slackened. She could hear Jer taking gallon breaths of air.

"Why can't we?" A deep breath. "You said it's abandoned."

She spun to face him. His Tilley hat dangled on its drawstring; his chest rose and fell with every breath.

"Figgie, why can't we?"

The river tugged the canoe sideways, and the roof of Spencer's empty mansion crowned Jer's head.

"Straighten us out," she said.

Jer sighed, sticking in his paddle and ruddering the boat straight.

"You didn't answer me. Why can't we check it out?"

"Well, it would be _trespassing_, for one. Besides, it might have guards.

"I'm not talking about busting down a door and stealing their VCR. I'm just saying that we should walk around."

He was using his _"you're such a widdle dummy" _voice. She contemplated sending a paddle-full of water at him.

"We just shouldn't. We're grown-ups, not teenagers on some-"

"Come on, stop being such a wet blanket."

Or, maybe the paddle itself.

"Jer, drop it. Okay?"

"No way. I saw how you looked at that place, you _want _to go over there."

She sighed. Ever since she got sick, Jer had stumbled over himself to accommodate her every whim. She found it humiliating, debasing. He seemed to be of the mind that a double fudge ice-cream sundae from across town would cure the malignancy that festered in her breasts and lymph-nodes. "Of course I do, but-"

"What's the worst that they'll do, yell at us?

"Jer-"

"Answer me,"

No answer.

"Laura, life is too short. If your cancer has taught us anything it should be that."

Though it was a shock to hear him use the words "Laura" and "cancer" in the same sentence, something he avoided at all costs, it was the first bit that had her flummoxed.

Life is short, he had no idea how right he was, sometimes.

"Laura?"

She cast a sidelong glance at the mansion and chewed her bottom lip.

_-Life is short-_

"Okay, fine. But if we get arrested, I swear I'll kill you."

Jer whooped and pointed the canoe toward a smooth patch of shoreline. His enthusiastic cheer spooked a large congregation of crows. They pitched into a screeching black swarm.

"Be quiet, you idiot."

Jer laughed and nosed the canoe into the coarse gravel riverbank. Her head bobbed forward with the sudden deceleration; the water in the bilge rolled up and soaked into her runners.

She rose, unable to stifle the grin that formed; the Spencer Estate waited to be investigated. Perhaps real life didn't wait on the banks, Laura of the Skene River was on dry land, and yet she was not Laura Houseman: twenty-nine year old Architectural Designer and skeletal wreck. She was Laura: historian, or possibly archaeologist, uncovering a forgotten chapter in twentieth century architecture.

"Do you want your camera?" he asked.

She wouldn't need to take pictures, though Jer would be suspicious if she didn't snap a few. The last thing she wanted was any more concern.

"Sure."

They clambered out of the canoe. Laura stretched her termite ridden frame and massaged the hollow divot in her left armpit, watching as Jer lugged the boat further up the bank.

She turned to the mansion, an indistinct grey smudge among the many hues of forest green. Somewhere far off, the crow convention continued their outraged chatter.

"Here you are." Jer passed her the camera and hiked at his cargo pants. "Let's go exploring."

Jer took the lead, breaking trail, swinging a chunk of deadfall like a machete. In his wide brimmed hat, hiking boots and khakis he looked like a gangly kid playing Indiana Jones, all he was missing was the bullwhip.

"So, why did Lord Whatthisface abandon his mansion so soon?" he asked.

"No one knows," Their voices seemed to amplify among the trees.

"Weird,"

"Yes, apparently he was."

"I wonder if it's haunted?"

"No, it's too new to be haunted."

They weaved their way through the underbrush and were nearing a comb of red-black bars stretching out around the estate. Jer stopped at the fence, wrought iron of Germano-Gothic design. Eight feet above them, triple-strung barbwire hung slack between the fenceposts. Laura ran one hand along the scabbed metal.

_-It's not even cast steel, this is the real stuff. It must have cost a fortune-_

"Looks like we've hit a roadblock, Figgie."

She stretched her view along the length of fencing. Just as it faded into the jumble of green it arched up several feet.

"There's a gate up there." She was already headed for it.

They traced their way along the fence. The barbwire clicked against the posts, and Laura was reminded of the pictures taken of concentration camp inmates pacing the confines their prison. Her impression was reinforced as they neared the open cavity of the double gates. The rusted steel, the filaments of loose barbwire, it looked like the photos of the Auschwitz gates Rabbi Barsky brought back from his European tour.

Only, instead of "_Arbeit Macht Frei_" written in strapiron lettering above the gates, a painted sign hung to the right, much newer that the rail it was wired to.

**Private Property**

**Keep out**

**Guard Dogs on Duty**

On one side of the warning, Umbrella's red and white pinwheel logo, on the other, a savage looking dog's head, muzzle open to reveal a jagged snarl of vicious teeth.

Jer turned his back to the sign.

"Well, have you seen enough?" he asked.

Laura squinted through the arched entrance. She could make out some sort of courtyard: limestone retaining walls, spilling their overgrown foliage onto slick cobblestone, a bronze statue, the features fuzzy with cheesemold Verdi Gris.

"Let's go in," she said.

"What? Can't you read? They've got guard dogs."

_-Typical Jer, all macho and no action-_

"The gate's wide open." She swept one arm though the entrance to demonstrate. "And it's not like we were all too quiet coming here. Do you hear any dogs?"

He cast his head around, scratching the rat's whiskers at the corners of his mouth. The wind whistled and the crows squawked. There was nary a bark, nor growl.

"No,"

"Do you hear anything at all?"

"No,"

"_See_? We're fine. Besides, who's idea was this, anyway?"

"Mine,"

"That's right, come on." She brushed past him and headed for the courtyard. Jer cursed under his breath and tailed along.

"I saw the Umbrella logo on that sign," His voice was a near whisper, and he walked with the careful tiptoes of a cartoon burglar. "I thought that Lord Whatshisface owned it."

"Spencer was part owner of Umbrella. Maybe he handed the title over to the business."

"What would a drug company want with this place?"

She shrugged. "Who knows,"

The crows settled and leaded silence fell upon them. She could hear every footfall, the anemic squeak of rusty metal. The wind gusted and spun up a whirlwind of leaves.

"This place is spooky." Jer kicked at the decapitated head of a concrete cherub.

"It's Gothic, it's supposed to be a bit spooky."

They were on a dedicated path now, circular stone slabs set into mossy pea-gravel. The wind tugged at her and she shivered; even a faint breeze riled her goose bumps.

Metal squeaked, Jer's feet scrunched along; the wind seemed to groan through the maze of ivy-marbled limestone walls.

"Let's turn around," he said.

She wasn't leaving yet. Trevor had shipped Italian marble columns to line the main entrance's portico. She owed it to herself, as well as the forgotten Trevor, to run her hands along their glassy surface. Maybe she would knock on the main doors, or peek through a few windows.

_-Life is short-_

"Just, give me a minute." She remembered the camera, a fitting excuse. "I want one good picture, to show Gloria."

She brushed a hand along an overturned granite planter. The backside of the mansion reared up to the sky a hundred yards ahead, its windows hollow like a skull's eyeholes.

They skulked like grave robbers through the courtyard. Jer was right about one thing, the Spencer Estate was definitely a bit creepy in its current state of neglect. The mansion's masonry, shipped by rail from Indiana after Trevor declared the local limestone substandard, was greasy and inked over with mildew. The friable edge bricks were eroded to quarter-rounds. Moss bearded the eaves and soffits, what a waste.

Something flapped against her bare shin, she bent and stared, curious at the sheet of waterlogged eight by eleven paper.

"It's like, the combination of every haunted house I've ever seen."

She ignored Jer and scooped up the paper, frowning. The page was margin to margin gibberish, an alphabet soup of numbers letters and characters, interspersed with an occasional line of vaguely scientific jargon.

"T-Expediter elongates both strands to complete synthesis of a double-stranded proviral DNA with the structure?"

"Huh?" Jer asked, turning around.

"Do you have any idea what this stuff means?" She handed him the sheet.

Jer adjusted his glasses; his lips moved as he scanned the dot-matrix hieroglyphs.

"No clue, it's not computer code." He flipped the page. "It's something about genetics, I think."

"There's paper everywhere,"

Laura wandered past a waist-high retaining wall. Along the cobblestones a redwood's worth of printer paper tumbled like oversize confetti. On the opposite side of the courtyard, a squad of crows huddled together atop a garden shed roof, eyeing them with a mugger's interest.

"Let's get out of here." Jer had that plaintive tone in his voice. So much about him irritated her. "Laura, this place is obviously _not _abandoned."

She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to him with an exasperated sigh.

"Do you think this place would be such a mess if there were people here?"

"Well, I-"

"Umbrella probably uses the mansion for storage, or something. This stuff could have blown out of a broken window. Now come on," She altered the tone of her voice to emulate his own "_Quit being such a wet blanket_."

Jer grunted and shook his head, a look of abject frustration on his narrow face. A moment later, he sulked off toward a concrete gazebo that looked like an OSHA nightmare.

She returned her attention to the scientific ticker-tape parade. A few windswept pages of water-marked printer paper collected between her feet; she snatched them up and eyed them like a blueprinter. The pages were crumpled and torn in places, covered in the same nonsensical language. Though one did have a title, of sorts, written in blue ballpoint in the upper margin.

**Amplification of T-Strain T1B3a in Hedera Helix genus over multiple generations. **

**H. Sarton**

**2/18/98 **

She turned the page over; the other papers slipped from her hand and glided away, bent into half circles by the wind.

Two words were scrawled diagonally across the page in lipstick-red Sharpie. She squinted and held the page closer, as if observing the message from a tighter vantage would provide insight into its meaning.

"Feeed Fisheees?" She chewed her bottom lip. In the distance, metal squeaked, a tree branch cracked.

_-Feed fishies, I think he meant. It looks like it was written by a kindergartner-_

The wind groaned; her sweatshirt flapped around her. She shivered and hustled over to where Jer was standing. H. Sarton's memo slipped from her fingers and was carried off.

As she neared, Jer bent and disappeared behind a retaining wall. A moment later, he re-emerged with a small rectangular box in his hands.

"What is this thing?"

She tugged at his shirt. He acknowledged her silently and returned to his discovery. The box seemed to be a remote control of some sort. The antenna was bent askew, and the battery dangled by its cord like robotic viscera. She forgot her unease and smiled to herself; Jer, the technological bloodhound makes another stunning discovery.

"It's like a souped up garage door opener." He flipped at a switch labelled BOW ENC 4; a red indicator light above the switch blinked a response.

"Where did you find it?"

"Right here." He pointed to the wall and flipped the BOW ENC 5 switch. "I should probably leave it alone, though."

"Good idea, you don't-" The words died in her throat. For a moment she could have sworn that a pale face was leering down at them from behind a second storey window. She took a hasty step toward her husband.

"What's wrong?"

Somewhere far off came the sound of steel barrels being knocked over. They both craned their necks.

She tugged at his shirtsleeve. "I think I've seen enough."

"Yeah, me too." He was already a few steps ahead of her,

They turned on their heels and began making their way back to the Auschwitz gate. The wind picked up, buffeting them with dead leaves and pages off errant science speak. Somewhere above them came the unmistakable hollow thud of a palm smacking against glass. Jer reached a hand back and grabbed her wrist.

"Let's hurry,"

Another fleshy smack against glass, a drawn-out screech of tired hinges.

"Yeah, lets go." She forced her newel post legs into a stiff run. They passed a rust streaked metal sign with arrows bent in various directions.

**Guardhouse**

**BOW Enclosure**

**Laboratory **

Her heartbeat accelerated. A terra-cotta handprint smudged out most of the word _laboratory_.

Behind them, at the garden shed, their avian audience tore off in a screeching scattershot of black feathers. Laura spun, she felt her frame quaking under her oversize sweater. The garden shed's metal door shuddered against its wooden frame. Above the door, steel letters were bolted to the siding, letters similar to those at the Auschwitz. Only the message was far more menacing than the deceptively optimistic _Arbeit Macht Frei_. The message was simple, in fact it was only one word, KENNELS.

_-Guard dogs on duty-_

The door dished outward. She could hear the tinder crack of spitting wood, a muffled bark.

"Oh, No!"

They were running now. The squadron of crows circled overhead; Jer hooked his arm around her waist.

Over the wind, the crows, and the hammering at the garden door, came the icy tinkle of shattering plate glass. From a window above their heads a muselin-white arm groped from the dark void of the mansion.

"Come on, hurry, hurry, _hurry_!"

"I _am _hurrying." Her legs were taking two paces for every one of his. The scar tissue across her chest banded her burning lungs.

A pronounced smack of metal against brick rang through the clamour. Laura glanced over her shoulder and managed to out-scream everything else. Behind them, the _guard dogs on duty _were loose: long, dark, snarling shapes, squat torpedoes with flashing teeth, homing in on them.

Jer must have known what was coming. He ramped up his pace, his feet kicked up scraps of moss. He was half-carrying, half-pushing her. His eyes were fear-crazed behind crooked glasses; his hat parachuted behind him on its drawstring.

She could hear at least four distinctive barks, the scrunching of padded feet behind them. She no longer had enough breath to scream.

A rough shove launched her forward. "Go!" Jer hollered.

She sprinted ahead, her chest full of molten steel. She was half blind from lack of oxygen, the surroundings a various blur of greens and browns. Spring loaded branches raised welts against her bare skin.

The dogs gained ground. The crows screeched and the wind howled.

_-Gonna die, Oh God, not like this-_

Jer's arm wrapped around her. She was momentarily lifted off the ground as he carried her like an ungainly squirming sack of cement. Her toes dragged channels through the dirt. She reclaimed her footing and sprung ahead.

How far was the canoe? They would never get it launched. They were going to be torn apart.

Over her own gasps for breath she could hear the click of powerful jaws_._

_-Oh God!-_

Jer was at her side, stooped and screaming the same words over and over again.

"THE TREES, CLIMB THE TREES!"

**AN, sorry for the late update. This chapter proved next to impossible to write. Hopefully you all enjoy it, I'm still not sure if I like how it turned out, be honest and let me know what you think. **

**Oh yeah, "Arbeit Macht Frei" means "work makes you free" (apparently)**

**Stay tuned**

**-C**


	17. Walking After Midnight

**July 1 1998 Raccoon City**

Irene steered her cruiser down another darkened Cider District street, idling past cookie-cutter homes with Astroturf lawns and two-car attached garages. She was mired in the sleepy hours between last call and the morning commute: that a dead space peppered only by the occasional drunk driver or domestic case.

Not that there were many domestic calls in Cider District, or in any of Ward Two for that matter. Three AM in Burbland was the time and place where most police officers contemplated what they were doing with their lives. What kind of greater good were they achieving by guzzling coffee and rolling past the sleeping normals? There must be bad guys doing something illegal, somewhere.

Like out in the Arklay Forest, maybe?

The cruiser's brakes squeaked as she stopped at an intersection she could have easily rolled through. Her Crown Vic was the only car on the road, and would likely remain that way for quite a while. But, rules were rules, and she supposed she should set an example, even at this ungodly hour.

She was rolling again. The windows were down, and a nice breeze blew through, carrying the scent of herbicide and grass clippings. The odour mingled pleasantly with the her takeout's smell of warm bread, meat and potatoes. On the whole it was a vast improvement over a cruiser's regular smell: body odour, cigarettes and stale coffee. She should consider ordering Emmy's and driving around with it more often.

A pair of headlights greeted her as she turned down Alder Street: a westbound taxi, mudstreaked and Tremclad yellow. They neared, and the cabbie tipped his hand off the A-pillar and gave a slow nod. Irene responded with a two-fingered farmer wave. The a sleepy acknowledgment between two souls trapped in graveyard-shift purgatory.

The taxi's taillights shrunk in her rear-view mirror. Its passenger-side brake light was out, and the driver didn't make a full stop at the intersection. Her fingers played at the switches for the overhead lights as she considered citing him for it, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. She was hungry, tired, and ready for a break. Besides, she'd get him next time.

She took another deep breath, filling her nostrils with the rich perfume that wafted through the squad car. She was near dead with boredom and fatigue, but her appetite seemed to be doing well for itself. She restrained the urge to tear into the bag's contents, and picked up the radio mike instead.

"Dispatch Oak, this is Baker Three-Nine, over." She could hear the weariness in her own voice.

_"Three-Nine, go ahead."_

"Three-Nine, I am going code-seven in ten minutes, over."

Before the dispatcher could give his Ten-Four, Joe's voice crackled through the radio. _"Negative, negative, Baker Three-Nine. You are to acquire two coffees, large with cream and sugar and are to code-three it to Victory Lake Campground gates. Rendezvous with Baker Four-Seven, over."_

She smiled and keyed the mike.

"Unable to comply, Four-Seven. Officer's partner currently owes her six coffees. Officer is unable to afford his habit."

The Oak Street dispatcher cut in._ "Copy your code-seven, Baker Three-Nine, enjoy your supper."_

_"Three-Nine, negative on code-seven, officers in need of coffee—"_

Irene laughed. She may have considered his request, but there was no negotiating with that bag of takeout. "I'll see you in an hour, Joe. Baker Three-Nine, out."

She reset the mike and turned down Warren Street. Up ahead, an unused traffic light blinked a steady red. She rolled on; century old facades closed in and then reeled past. Even downtown was lifeless at this hour. She felt her eyelids droop; solo graveyard shifts were the worst.

Three more days.

Three more, very long, days.

Five minutes later, she swung the patrol car into the curb lane and bumped to a stop across from a drab brick of mud-coloured stone and soot-stained mortar. She grabbed the takeout bag and slid out of the car, locked up while keeping one hand on the soggy paper bottom. She glanced at a set of second-storey windows. The bedroom light was on and the living room flickered with unmistakable television-blue fireworks.

She crossed the street, eyes set on the lighted entrance, and frowned to herself, already feeling the dirty reek of humanity that festered from within. She had managed to tolerate apartment life during police academy, but as soon as she got hired by the RPD she went house hunting. The only creatures meant to live stacked on top of one another were chickens: the most vile and filthy things in God's creation. Apartments were unnatural, plain and simple.

She hopped over the curb with one hand cooking under the hot takeout bag. The doors stood ahead of her, glass buttered over with fingerprints, brass pullhandle tarnished and brown. Valleyview Apartments was written across the glass in chipped golf-leaf. What genius had thought of that name? There was no valley to speak of, and the only view it offered was of the Northlands Industrial smokestacks.

She turned to the rows of buttons, each labelled with a typewritten paper strip in some various stage of sun damage. She pushed 206. The speaker on the panel screeched like a snow-goose with a bellyfull of birdshot.

A half-minute passed and there was no response. Irene pressed the button again and held it, counting to three-one thousand. At last, the speaker crackled with a distorted male voice.

_"Hullo?"_ Even through the five-cent speaker she could hear the owner's Southern drawl.

"RPD, Sir, please open up."

There was a moment's pause.

_"That you, Reen?"_

"Yeah, it's me,"

_"Come on up,"_ The electric lock slid with a sharp snap. Irene swung the door open with her free hand and stepped into a lobby wallpapered in nicotine yellow floral patterns. She wiped her boots on threadbare carpet, managing to kick up a dormant funk that smelled like horse piss and road salt. She wrinkled her nose and headed for the stairway.

She took the creaking steps two at a time, the walls were patched and mottled with handprints of all sizes. She groaned and made a point not to touch the banister waxy surface, turning her eyes to the flyspecked light globes.

She started down the second storey hallway. Forest was holding his door open, shirtless and bleary eyed.

A slow smile spread across his face as he noticed the large Emmy's logo on the takeout bag.

"Hey, Reen." He yawned and tugged at the seat of his jeans. "What you got there?"

"Supper for me, breakfast for you," She stepped into his apartment and handed him the bag.

"Shoot, you didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to, besides, I owe you."

"You don't owe me nothing. Come on in."

Forest cleared the junk off his coffee table, set the bag down, and shuffled into his kitchen, slipping on a sleeveless T-shirt he had snatched off his recliner.

"I'll grab us some drinks, pop a squat."

She walked into his living room, noticing the fleece blanket that lay in a tangled ball around the base of the couch. His pillow was crammed partway between the cushion and armrest.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Naw, I've been awake for a bit."

She had the distinct feeling that he was lying to her but decided not to pursue the subject. Did Forest sleep with the lights on?

"What you want to drink? I got water, Seven-Up, or Orange Juice."

_-Oh shit, that's right, no Coke- _

She gave herself a mental kick for not ordering herself a coffee. She knew very well that Forest didn't drink caffeine. So damn much had been slipping past her lately. God, what she wouldn't give for ten hours' worth of dreamless sleep.

"I'll take a Seven-Up." She swept the stray peanut shells off the cushion and settled into one of the orange-plaid atrocities that served as her boyfriend's furniture.

Forest returned with cutlery and a pair of plastic glasses. He handed one to her, and she sipped the foam off the top, letting the soda fizz and burn its way down her throat. Hopefully Seven-Up would provide enough of a sugar rush to keep her awake.

"It's good to see you, but where's your little partner at?" He flipped the TV to a ballgame and sipped his drink.

She could clearly imagine Joe's bristling reaction to Forest's "little" comment. She smiled and began emptying the takeout.

"Dave Ford pulled roadblock duty up at Victory Lake. His partner got suspended last week, so they paired him up with Joe."

Forest raised one eyebrow. "Why didn't they just post you and Joe up there, leave Ford by himself?"

She had no answer for that question. Did it have something to do with Joe's upcoming promotion?

"No idea," She handed him a styrofoam container and grabbed the other for herself.

"They wouldn't give me biscuits and gravy to go, so I hope that you like beef-melts."

"Ain't nothing wrong with a beef-melt for breakfast." Forest already flipped the container open and was tearing into his sandwich with enthusiastic bites.

She wondered how often he ate.

She unwrapped her own sandwich and nibbled at a corner, closing her eyes and savouring the rich taste. She rarely allowed herself to indulge in restaurant food. It was a delicious but decidedly unaffordable luxury. She would have to wait until her next review and the pay raise that came along with it to enjoy it on a more regular basis.

So they ate in groggy silence, talking little, content with watching the Marlins get trounced by the Expos. Halfway though her beef-melt, she wiped at her mouth, yawned and allowed herself to sink into the musty warmth of Forest's spring-worn sofa. It was so nice here, would they miss her if she spent the last four hours of her shift snoozing in the dingy comfort of Forest's chicken coop?

She yawned again. Her eyelids fell lower and lower.

_-Just this once, so tired-_

She opened her eyes. Who was she trying to fool? Of course, they would mind.

_-Shit-_

She'd have to suck it up. Once she was done with supper she'd swing by the Flying-J and grab coffee for herself, Joe and Dave. All she needed was a bit of a kick to finish this shift. And then she would go home, undress, and sleep like the dead.

_-Like the dead? More like, I'll sleep three hours,__ wake up,__and pace my bedroom like a chained dog. I need to get some sleeping pills, or something-_

With a heavy sigh, she stretched, and watched Forest brush scraps of his breakfast out of his whiskers. It still puzzled her how someone who was so meticulous with his work could be such a slob in his personal habits.

She glanced at the framed photo that hung between the American and Confederate flags that served as his curtains. From behind the dusty glass, Private Speyer stood at attention, clean-shaven and hard-eyed, flanked on either side by similar looking stone-faced boys. He looked so proud, so squared away. What had happened?

_-He changed, it's what people do-_

No, that wasn't entirely true. After dealing with humanity at its worst for nearly five years, she had decided that people didn't change, they were damaged.

Every day she waded through the human wreckage that passed through the RPD's doors; drunks, thieves, junkies. Hell, even the cops were damaged. Dave Ford hit the bottle after killing a perp during a botched domestic disturbance call. Police work's constant parade of carnage permanently skewed Joe Gutierrez's sense of humour.

And now, four years into her career, she decided to stop sleeping.

Was it the Connor deaths that disturbed her? Or was she still grieving over the loss of Ann, or her father, fourteen years after their deaths?

_-It doesn't matter, does it? I'm screwed-up either way- _

Four years in, and she was cracking up, losing it. What was she going to do? Doc Matheson billed the RPD directly for any counselling he provided. Would her name be on the bill as well? The RPD was a relatively small force; either way, word would get around that she was going crackers. What kind of effect would visits to the PD shrink have on her advancement within the department?

_-Shit, this sucks- _

She looked back at Forest. He was staring at her with his small, keen eyes, curious

A question was forming behind those eyes: a question she had no intention of answering. "So, what's happening with those ten fifty-nines up in the woods?" It was the first thing that came to her mind.

"The what now?" he said.

Irene sighed. She needed to go easy on the cop speak. "Those deaths in the Arklay Forest, what's happening with the file?"

Forest's eyes hardened to nailheads; he huffed and shook his head like a riled bronco.

"File? There ain't no file anymore. The case is closed. Didn't you hear?"

Irene leaned forward and matched Forest's frown. "I'm general patrol, they don't tell me anything. Besides, everybody at the PD has clammed up about it. They took STARS off the case?"

"Yeah, they took us off all right." The venom in his words was unmistakable. "As soon as the coroner listed all them bodies as animal attacks, that Detective… what's his name, Silverberg?"

"Silverman,"

"Silverman just shrugs, kicks us off the case, and fires the dossier off to the Forestry Service. It's bullshit…mind the swearing."

"You're kidding?"

"If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. And I'll tell you another thing, that wasn't no animal attack neither. Unless a wildcat started wearin' size ten-dress shoes all of a sudden."

Irene blinked. "What?"

"That quarry where we got those two kids? We found all sorts of shoeprints around the bodies. And not all of em' were from the victims. It's just like at that accident you were telling me about. Buckets of blood, shoeprints, and no bodies. I got no notion how that coroner could just up and ignore all that. Captain Marini is madder'n a hornet though. He tore into the Chief something fierce.

Irene cupped her head into both hands. "Wow, what a screw-up."

On one hand, she couldn't believe what she was hearing, on the other, it was a seamless fit with everything else which had taken place in that fouled patch of woodland. Everything was being glossed over with these deaths. That rollover was dismissed altogether. The wallet and shoeprints turned into dead-ends. The right people weren't asking enough questions, and complicated problems were being passed off with childishly simple answers. It was bad police work. Even she, still relatively green, knew that.

Of course, Geezer Thomas was looked upon as a sort of forensic oracle. The man spoke the truth and commanded the respect of every single RPD staffer. He was definitely not one to shoot from the hip. So if Geezer Thomas had listed those ten fifty-nines as animal attacks, animal attacks they must be.

Her mind returned to Madison Connor: the girl's rain-slick face, frozen in a silent scream. She recalled her thoughts that day.

_-This wasn't a bear attack either, don't fool yourself- _

She still felt that way. Joe agreed with her; it seemed that Forest and the rest of STARS Bravo felt the same. And yet, the authority on the subject begged to differ. Who was right? Was anyone?

She sighed and shut the lid on the remaining half of her supper. Their conversation had snuffed out her appetite. How would a beef-melt taste reheated?

"So, what rules out an animal attack?" she asked.

"Well, wolves'll hamstring their kill. Bears and big cats'll use their claws. None of them bodies looked like they had claw marks, or were eaten from the legs up, did they?"

"None that I saw,"

"Us neither,"

It was then that she decided that visiting Forest had been a bad idea. Her mind had been in revolt already; this news would only stir the pot further.

"So, if it's not wolves, bears, or mountain lions, what does that leave?" she asked.

Forest ran a hand though his tangled hair and then leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. "There's only one animal I can think of with no claws, that wears size-ten dress shoes."

Irene was speechless; one hand snuck its way up to her mouth.

"You think?"

He shrugged and leaned back; a cloud of dust billowed from the recliner's backrest.

"To be honest, I don't know. It was Sullivan's idea. Personally, I can't see _anyone _bein' crazy enough to do something like that. Least I hope there ain't."

_-True enough, oh God, that's bad. That's big!-_

"Holy shit," She exhaled and ran her fingers through her ponytail; what fatigue she had been feeling had been successfully chased away. She wouldn't be sleeping any time soon. "So, what do we do now?"

"We?"

"Okay, what does _STARS _do now?"

Forest chuckled, but there wasn't an ounce of humour in the laugh. He was staring at her with his grey eyes hard and angry. "What do we do? We sit on our asses and watch the bodies pile up. Cause whatever's happening in those woods is gonna keep happening."

**Front Page Raccoon Herald July 1 1998**

**Citizens Pan Police Response to Arkay Forest Deaths **

**Ben Bertolucci**

A growing number of Racoon City residents, have begun to question the Raccoon Police Department's delayed response to the multiple deaths that had recently taken place in the Arklay Forest.

The group, headed by Samuel Connor, brother of victims Darius and Benjamin Connor, has been pressuring RPD…

**Page A2 Raccoon Herald July 1 1998**

**Fourth of July Celebrations Relocated from Victory Lake.**

**Alyssa Ashcroft**

In the wake of recent deaths near Victory Lake, and the Raccoon Police Department's cordoning off of many roads and trails West of the Arklay river, Raccoon City Special Events Coordinator Deb Perrin has announced that Fourth of July festivities, held at the Victory Lake Campground auditorium for the past seventeen years, will be relocated to the Cider District's Memorial Park.

Raccoon City Cider District homeowner's association chairperson David Raynor states that…

**A/N I love writing Forest/Irene chapters, so expect more to come. And with this chapter, we are officially halfway through the story. So buckle-up, kids. Things are going to get bumpy.**

**Another huge thanks to Maiafay, who proofread this chapter before I posted, (although I changed some stuff around afterward and may have re-typoed, lol) and to each and every one of you who have read along this far, you guys rule!**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	18. Lovers in a Dangerous Time

**July 1, 1998 Skene River**

Sometime during that endless night a dense sheath of fog rolled out of the river valley. It billowed past the brambles and seeped through the Auschwitz fence. It tumbled through the trees, and at last, passed below them, obscuring the rotting horrors that clambered at the bottom of her perch.

Once the ground was covered, the fog began amplifying, steadily climbing the trees like the rising tide at Tillamook Bay. In a half-hour, Trevor's mansion was swallowed up. Not long after that, Jer was claimed as well.

For what felt like an eternity, she was alone in a grey netherworld: a featureless void of shadows and insane howling. At one point she had heard a phantasm's mournful wail and the cutlery-clink of rattling chains, as if Marley's ghost decided to pay a visit. The constant shaking of her roost, and her inability to get a bearing of what was up, and what was down was almost as upsetting as the creatures below.

Almost.

What were they? They looked like dogs, Rottweilers, or Dobermans, but after being under assault for what felt like a week, it was obvious that something had happened to them. They were diseased, or rabid…or something. When a normal dog chased something up a tree, it would sit on its haunches and wait, or maybe bark. These things never stopped gnashing and snapping and snarling, climbing over themselves and throwing their putrescent bodies against the tree in a frenzied effort to tear her apart. After sixteen hours, they were still down there, just as angry as the moment they had seen her.

It took a night of hanging above them, like some sort of withered fruit, to decide that they would never leave. Their patience would soon be rewarded. It wouldn't take much longer before she dropped from exhaustion, into their open mouths.

She tilted her head to the parchment sky. The sun was a blob of light behind a paper mask, poking through the trees. The fog started to lift, and the upper windows of Trevor's mansion glowed like square supernovas. To her left, Jer's silhouette was a spectral shape in the mist. He was hunched on himself like an oversized rodent, likely mortared in place with fear.

Laura looked away, to the empty-pill bottle; what luck she had decided to pack along her old pain meds, just in case. She smiled, pitched it to the ground and muttered a quiet "Mazel-tov" as the plastic shattered. With tentative pressure, she pinched her lower lip between her teeth. After an unnaturally long delay, her nervous system responded and demanded she stop.

_-Not ready yet, but close-_

She swung her head from the ground, to the mansion, to the sun. Her balance was beginning to go off-kilter, and she knew that she would have to do it soon otherwise she would be too stoned to move. She braced herself against the tree trunk and turned to Jer. The bright green of his Oregon University sweatshirt began to colour his shadow, and she could see the faint smudge of a terror-white face. At the rate the fog was being burned off, she would be able to see him as she said her goodbye, and her prayers.

_-Prayers, yeah, that's not going to happen-_

As an olive branch to Jer's parents they would occasionally attend synagogue. But, while Jer seemed to truly believe in God, and Heaven, she simply went through the motions.

Even in the face of death: a situation where so many others would cling to the saccharine comfort of their respective deities, her lack of faith had endured. Even on this tree branch she remained convinced that there was no afterlife, no Gan Eden and Gehinnom, or whatever Rabbi Barsky called Heaven and Hell. The only way she would live on was in the memories of others.

She bit down on her lip and tasted copper; it was time.

"Jer," Her voice sounded like sandpaper.

He didn't move.

"JER!"

He turned to her, goggle-eyed and ghostly in the mist, a pipe-cleaner Gollum in a Christmas-green sweater.

"Can you hear me?" The world swam out of focus and she needed to hug the tree trunk with both arms.

_-Don't fall, not yet-_

Jer nodded; his longish hair hung in his face, plastered flat by the humidity. What had happened to his hat, she wondered, and then laughed.

_-Get a grip, just a bit more-_

"I'm going to run toward the mansion… I want you to get down…to the river, and get in the canoe."

At first, the words didn't seem to be registering, but then his head slowly shook from side to side. His jaw hung slack, but he may have mouthed the word, "No".

"Jer, did you…" She clamped onto the tree as her balance faltered "…hear me?"

Jer swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed above his collar. "I heard, don't do it. You'll never make it back."

She shook her head. "I'm not coming with you."

Jer scooted up the branch, toward her. His eyes were invisible behind his translucent glasses, but she could see the panic nonetheless "What do you mean?"

"I mean." She smiled at him. "I'll distract those…dogs. I want you to get in the canoe, and get away from here."

Jer pulled off his glasses. His eyes were wild with rodential desperation. "Don't be _stupid_. I won't let you kill yourself. How could I live with myself if you-"

"Jer-"

"NO!" His cheeks had a varnish glow of tears, and his lower jaw gibbered frantically. "I don't _care _what I have to do. You are NOT going down there!"

"Jeremy..." That stopped him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was time for the truth.

"My cancer's back. Doctor Rensberg called me in for a consult last week. It's in my lungs now. They want to start me on chemo again, but the chances aren't good. They gave me six months, to a year. I was going to tell you once we got home."

Her therapist had gone over the stages of grief, and she had followed them, more or less, with possible exception to bargaining. Bargaining was Jer's speciality. He seemed to genuinely believe in the deus-ex machina: that they would be spared from death because they read the Torah on Yom Kippur, recycled, and voted Democrat.

There was no deus-ex machina, the very concept was infantile. If Jer was to be saved, it would be by her hand and not some invisible man in the clouds.

"Laura." He was stretching out as if he meant to grab her from fifteen feet away. "I don't care. Please, stay with me."

She shook her head and smiled again. It was difficult to say if it was the pills, or if at last, she had completed the cycle of grief and stumbled upon acceptance. In the end, she supposed, either one worked.

"I love you, Jeremy." She met his eyes, but her vision was going haywire with the edges fringed in crinoline. "And if you love me, you'll get to the canoe, and get out of here."

"Please..." He was sobbing, his perch sagged under his weight as he inched further away from the trunk. "Please, don't do it, we'll…think of…something."

She crouched on the balls of her feet, loosened her shoulders, and glanced back at her husband. "I've made up my mind."

"Laura!" He was still crying, but some part of him must have known that this was the only way it would end, as he was making his way back toward the trunk. She looked down at the boiling pot of angry dog, along the gravel path, to the mansion, and then back to Jer.

"It's now, or a year from now. At least this way will be quick. I think I prefer it this way."

-_Do a dive-roll, and come up running. Jer will need about a half-minute to get to the boat, and a bit longer to get it launched. If I can make it into the courtyard, I can tie them up around those retaining walls-_

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Jer reset his glasses and wiped his nose. He nodded.

She stood and stretched; it seemed that her parents' gymnastics lessons were about to pay for themselves. How would a dive-roll look, performed by someone fucked up on a half-bottle of hydrocodone? It was a shame that she wouldn't have an appreciative audience, or at least, one with a sense of humour.

Laura turned, one last time, to Jer. They were looking at each other with newfound awkwardness; how exactly did a person say goodbye in a situation like this? In the end, they didn't say anything. Laura gave him one last smile, pointed her arms to the sky, and allowed gravity to tip her forward like a lever. Once she was at roughly forty-five degrees, she launched herself, straightbacked and palms out.

_-Okay, Jer Here comes your deus-ex machina-_

There was enough time for her to feel the wet fog curdle past before she hit hands first. The coarse grit was like landing on an emery-board; her palms shredded, and her arms buckled. One soulder gave a tremendous pop, and the crown of her head plowed a furrow through the rocks; it sounded like ice cubes being chopped in a blender.

She rolled her spine and tucked her legs, allowing the momentum to carry her lower torso forward. Her shoulders and back scrunched through the gravel. The crushed limestone's sharp teeth bit through her sweater. Her heels made contact. She rolled onto the balls of her feet and was running a heartbeat later.

Jer's one minute's grace had begun.

_-One…two…-_

The dogs, diseased, but apparently still very alert, took notice. She pumped her arms for added speed, but her left one only seemed to dangle its dead weight. Comfortable warmth welled in her palms, down her neck, and the small of her back.

The high-speed scenery blurred past as if it were taken with a low ISO setting. The Spencer Estate loomed ahead: a massive grey tombstone smudged into the emulsified trees.

Her shoes beat a frantic rhythm down the courtyard's cobblestones, pausing only as she hurdled a broken-backed garden bench. She had counted to twenty-three when something latched itself around one of her calves. She staggered and wrenched it free; the skin tore as she pulled. Her foot went numb, it was so warm.

_-Through the courtyard…just a little longer…twenty-six….twenty-seven-_

She was screaming: a wordless cycle of E's and A's, that was likely rattling Spencer's windows loose. Her one good arm pumped above her head; she could hear nothing but her own banshee wail. Her vision had narrowed to a pinhole, and her entire body radiated the pleasant heat of a warm bath.

Something hit her from behind and knocked her forward. She fell to her knees and felt her legs being tugged at.

_-Thirty-eight, so warm-_

She was pinned. Her chest was crushed and deflated, her jackhammer heart ricocheted against her ribcage, and yet somehow she could still scream.

_-Thirty…nine- _Dark shapes blurred past her worm's-eye view.

With her fading vision, she caught sight of one of the mansion's statues: a stone angel, its soot-black wings outstretched, its rusted iron sword pointed heavenward.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe there was some sort of afterlife. And maybe, just maybe, her last act on this world would be enough to get her steered toward the right direction.

_-Just maybe-_

**Front Page Raccoon Herald July 2 1998**

**Authorities Seek Identity of Man Found at Victory Lake**

**Ben Bertolucci**

The Raccoon Police Department is asking for the public's help in identifying a man discovered alone and unresponsive on Victory Lake's cordoned-off north shore.

The man, a Caucasian in his late twenties to early thirties, was suffering from exposure, but was otherwise in fair physical condition. He has been taken to Raccoon General Hospital for testing and a psychological…

**A/N Well, I hope you liked this chapter, unfortunately It will be the last one for a bit. I have been struck with a nasty case of reality, and won't be able to do much writing for a few months. But rest assured, I will finish this story...mark my words!**

**Have a fantastic summer, and stay tuned!**

**-C**


	19. Till I Am Myself Again

**Hey Kids!**

**I was supposed to help a friend pour a basement today, but it rained all day, so I blew the dust off my compy and wrote out a new chapter. I hope you enjoy it!**

_July 4, 1984 Baker Creek_

_The mid-afternoon sun was blinding after the cool dark of the hospital lobby. Irene was forced to squint and grab her Mom's hand, allowing herself to be guided to the car, groggy, rubbing at the thick bandages on her face._

_Her Mom turned and stayed Irene's free hand. "Don't touch it." _

"_But it hurts," _

_Behind her, Papa made a weird choking sound. He was wearing a funny white collar, and he had a band-aid on his forehead. He noticed her and dropped his eyes to the ground. Was Papa angry at her?_

_She slumped into the car and rested her bandages against the glass. One side of her head felt like it was on fire, and pressing on it helped. The doctor had given her some pills. They made her feel dizzy and sleepy, but he told her it would make the pain go away. He must have given her the wrong pills though, because it wouldn't stop hurting._

_Mom was driving; the radio was off, and no one was talking._

_Why where they at the hospital?_

_She shut her eyes and tried to remember what had happened, and slowly, little bits of movie-clip memories came back._

_She remembered the doctor, the big needles, and the nurse with the thread. She remembered riding in Papa's grain truck, and then riding in an ambulance. She remembered Anna looking at her with her head bent in a funny way, and she remembered Papa screaming. _

_-Anna- _

_Irene opened her eyes and scanned the car. Where was Anna? She had been in the ambulance too, and Irene had seen her in the hospital."Papa," She tugged at his shoulder. "Papa, we need to go back. We forgot Anna!"_

_Papa went all stiff, and then he turned in his seat. His eyes were big and red, and he had a runny nose. He looked at her, blinked, and then turned back and covered his face with his hands. He started making that weird choking sound again, but this time it was more high-pitched. It sounded like he was laughing. Did she say something funny?_

_No, those weren't laughs; he was crying. Why was Papa crying?_

"_Mom, what's wrong with Papa? Where's Anna?"_

_Her Mom's mouth tightened into a straight purple line. She gave Papa and angry look, and then, just stared at the road. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Irene could see dark blue veins popping out of the white skin._

"_Ann isn't coming home, buckle your seat-belt."_

_Irene spent the rest of the day in her room, staring across the hardwood at her sister's empty bed. They didn't eat supper that night, but at some point, her Mom brought up a sandwich and milk. She was lost to a drugged sleep long before fireworks lit up in the eastern sky._

**July 4, 1998 Jordan Road**

A grinding rumble and jackhammer vibration snapped Irene awake. Her eyes popped open, and she gaped at the slanted horizon. The wheels furrowed though the embankment's mud-gravel slurry, and she could feel the truck pitch further into the ditch. Her pulse ramped up to full-sprint and for a moment, she froze, terrified and disoriented, but before the truck could roll, her pursuit driving skill kicked in. With intuitive perfection, she pressed the clutch and eased her truck onto the asphalt. The horizon evened out, and the steering regained its tight grip on the road.

"Holy shit," She rolled down her window and forced a few calm breaths, before giving up and resuming her doglike panting. "That, was close."

She let out a halting breath, wiped her face, and got her bearings. She was about seven miles out of town; the last thing she remembered was crossing Sherritt's Bridge.

With guarded care, she shifted into highway gear and continued down Jordan road. The open window's buffeting wind turned up a miniature dust devil, and a few gas receipts fluttered up like oversized ashes before whooshing past. The passenger's side footwell scattering of empty to-go cups stirred and belched their syrupy-black dregs onto the floormat.

She cranked the radio volume, soon Emmylou Harris and AM fuzz accompanied the deafening windblast and the ringing of blood in her ears. Looking around, the scene was all too familiar.

She had responded to countless fatal accidents.

_-Incidents-_

Countless fatal incidents, where the vehicle's windows were down, the radio (if it still worked) was tuned to something up-tempo, and there was spilled coffee mixed in with the bloodstains.

She could already read the headline "RPD officer killed in single vehicle rollover" and shuddered with the gut-punch realisation that she had nearly become another statistic for the hazards of driving while sleep deprived. In actuality it was nearly as dangerous as driving drunk.

_Papa set down his can and smiled as he honked the truck's air-horn and waved at Sherriff Poole. Irene and Anna waved as well. Sherriff Poole was a nice guy, and he had such a neat car, fast too. _

_Irene let out a little yelp as Anna climbed over her, and she scooched to the window as they traded spots._

"_Papa, will there be fireworks at the park this year?" Anna asked._

_Papa turned and smiled; his big horse's teeth were so white against his rough face. "There always is, why?"_

"_Do you think Sherriff Poole will let us watch him light them again?"_

_He sipped his drink. "They're better to watch from far away, don't you think?"_

_Irene shook her head and leaned over. "Nu-uh, it's fun watching the…" She searched for the word. "the fuses. They light up like bombs!"_

_Papa chuckled, "like bombs."_

"Stop it!" She mopped her feverish forehead with a shirtsleeve: soft blue cotton, faded to the colour of winter sky. "Stop…thinking."

She blinked and made a vigilant effort to concentrate on the highway's chipped yellow dashes.

_-Pay attention to the road; don't crash-_

It was easier said than done. She had slept four hours total in the past two nights, and her capacity to complete even the simplest of tasks was alarmingly low.

She wiped her face, four hours' sleep, seven pounds lost, one court date missed, and twelve bucks wasted on useless sleeping pills. She was falling apart, plain and simple.

_-Don't think about it- _

She swallowed and blinked. Her truck staggered through a frost-boil, patched with quarter-down. Metal tinked from the truck bed. She glanced back to inspect. The shovel was still there, but the plants had tipped over and spilled the dirt that fed them right back to the tailgate.

She groaned, "What am I _doing_?"

_-Don't think about that either-_

Irene reset her eyes to forward and ran a hand through her hair. Gordon's Creek Bridge loomed ahead, mossy-green concrete girders like twin grave markers.

_Irene had to squint though the jungle of flowers, daisies and lilies mostly, to see her. Even then, all she could make-out was the very front of her face, poking from out of the coffin. She looked like one of Mom__'s china dolls. _

"STOP IT!" She rapped her temple with a balled hand. This must be what going crazy felt like, the overlapping of past and present, where everything felt like a waking dream.

_-Is this what Dad felt like?-_

The thought was like an ice-water wakeup.

"No," Her ponytail slapped against her face as she shook her head. "I'm _not _like him."

_-Then why are you wearing his shirt and boots?-_

She glanced at the western shirt and cowboy boots, and then caught sight of her own guilty eyes in the rearview mirror. "I…just…I needed something to wear, that I could get dirty."

-_Sure you did, why did you take them in the first place? This has been a long time coming-_

Somehow, before her little mental showdown could escalate into a shooting match, she managed to wipe the thought away. Taking advantage of the respite, she stole another glance at the cargo in the truck bed. The lilies might die, but the daisies should be okay; daisies were tough, almost like weeds.

Eyes ahead, the cut-line was a few yards up, and she swung her truck off Jordan Road's blacktop, onto the baked mud. Yellow ribbons of torn police tape fluttered in the breeze.

The road, heavily rutted by the wheels of countless RPD vehicles, commanded every bit of her attention, granting a continuation to her reprieve from the disconcerting flashes of half-suppressed memories. Her truck's rear axle thudded on loose torque arms, and the sagging front springs offered no cushion. It was a small blessing that the road had dried up, as even in four-wheel drive, she doubted her truck would have made the journey.

A small smile turned at the corners of her mouth, and she ran an affectionate hand along the sun-crazed dashboard, "My Rusty."

"_Here she is, Irene. It hasn't run since Levi moved up to Cheyenne, but you can have her if you want her."_

_Irene frowned, wiped a line of chaff and dried bird shit off the hood, and poked a boot-tip to the flat front tire. "It's pretty rusty."_

Although so much about Rusty was awful, she couldn't give him up. Perhaps, the sense of freedom he had given her so many years ago still endured, or maybe it was his interior's sour musk of dairy barn that fostered some sort of perverse nostalgia for summers spent working on her uncle's farm.

Rusty bumped toward the trees, and she strong armed the front end back into the tire ruts. Stones clunked underneath, and paper-thin fenders slapped like mud-caked carpet. She winced as a fallen tree branch tangled and snapped underneath. With her bad luck, she'd probably end up ripping out her new muffler and tailpipe, another expense, another headache.

Her ill-fortune seemed to hold off, as Rusty came to a stop (in an all too familiar spot) relatively intact. Irene killed the engine. Hot exhaust pipes clinked; a fly butted the windshield with dull-witted persistence, its tiny brain unable to deduce that freedom waited six inches away in the form of an open window.

-_Flies__ in their simple traps, Irene Lindstrom in a trap set fourteen years ago- _

She stepped out of the truck. Her father's boots, cowhide leather permanently spotted with manure and Baker Creek mud, worn soft to a second skin, kicked up plumes of dust as she made her way to the tailgate.

Irene caught sight of her reflection in Rusty's side glass, and she stopped to frown. There weren't many sane young women who played dress-up with their father's old clothing. She was trying to put her past behind, and yet she was clutching to the familiar comforts of long ago. She was too sentimental, too much like her father. She was also too proud, too headstrong, too much like her mother.

With a tired sigh, she straightened her hair and glanced at the spilled flowers. She put her hands on her hips, and shook her head.

_-Fine, you're going crazy, but contaminating a crime scene, for the hell of it is plain stupid- _

Irene wiped her forehead, the shirt smelled like mildew, but she may have caught a whiff of tobacco and aftershave.

"Maybe, but it's worth a shot." She scooped the daisies back into the old ice-cream buckets. The lilies, already wilted and crippled, were a lost cause, and she left them to be desiccated in the unusual summer heat. She grabbed two pails' worth of flowers, the long handled spade, and continued down the cut-line, past where she and Joe had found Darius Connor's windowless pickup.

The spade's edged point made simple work of the loose dirt, easy digging compared to the gumbo in the overgrown wilderness of her home's gardens. Two feet away, a shallow trench and forgotten evidence tag marked the spot where Irene had discovered Madison Connor.

_Although Irene normally let Joe deal with V/C__'s families, she was pretty decent at managing a person's grief. They had given practical lessons at police academy, but it was her mentorship with Joe that had honed her skills. _

"_You've got to listen to them Lindstrom. Let them know that you're not just some messenger boy, but don't take their troubles as your own. You've still gotta be able to close that door and walk away."_

_It had been surprisingly easy; she'd done it more times than she could count, but Irene couldn't even look at Victoria Connor. That hard face, that grim mouth, those watery pockets in the corners of her eyes. She was staring at her own mother._

_Feeling nauseous and short of breath, Irene turned her attention to the Connor family's door side flower beds: some ornamental grass, tiger lilies, and daisies, lots of daisies._

Madison Connor, she wasn't as pretty as Ann, but they were similar in age. Both girls were dead, in the hands of God, while those that loved, both the girls and their Heavenly Father, were left to wonder where their deaths fit into His plans. Those who loved the girls were left to curse Him, left to turn on each other in their anger and grief.

Looking down at the transplanted perennials, Irene couldn't help but wonder what exactly she was hoping to achieve with this little stunt. The idea had come to her after an unending night of no sleep and sweat-soaked bedsheets. She had been turning it over for most of the day, letting it tumble and ingrain itself. Faced with the prospect of another fitful night in the incubator heat of her dark bedroom, it had become one of her few viable options.

_-It was either this, or seeing Doc Matheson-_

Was it any surprise that some RPD comedian had started calling getting drunk after a shift "seeing Doc Matheson" Which version of seeing Doc Matheson did she plan on doing?

She started down the turkey trail which would lead to the pond. The footprints cast into the kilned mud were like the surface of an asteroid. The ice-cream pail coughed out clots of dirt as it slapped against her thigh, and she had the spade rested against her shoulder, just as her father would carry it.

"_After three boys I finally have two girls, and both of them turn out to be boys as well." _Her mother's words, hurtful at the time, but not untrue.

Irene turned away from the pond, down a path beaten through the ferns by RPD shoeheels, toward where they had found Darius Connor. She wondered what kind of relationship Madison Connor had with her father.

"_No, no, Reenie. Hold the ball like this, and keep a tight grip with this finger. Don't let the ball touch your palm or it won't spin."_

Irene sighed and crouched down, depositing the pail near the man-sized hollow. The rain would collect there for some time, and she wondered if the plants would survive. Her Mom would know.

_-Mom would also know that something was up if you were planting flowers. Do you really want to tell her what you've been up to?-_

"No, not even maybe."

Once more, the shovel made quick work of digging, and she was soon tamping soil, soil which may still have runnels of Darius Connor's blood in it, around the base of the plant. She wiped her hands on denim cuffs, and surveyed her work. It was a stupid idea, risky and poisonous to her career. But maybe this tiny act of mourning, both for the Connors' shattered family and her own, would exorcise the ghosts of past hurt. There were few options left. And either version of seeing Doc Matheson was undesirable, especially the drinking.

_Her father never drank after that afternoon. He also never laughed, or sang. His guitar grew a thick coat of dust and was eventually packed away. He argued with his brothers. He and Mom slept in separate rooms, and when they fought, she called him a murderer._

The spade tumbled off Irene's shoulder as hands went to temples. She shook her head and clamped her eyes shut, as if she was stepping out of a dark hospital lobby into blinding July summertime.

"No, I _don't _want to think about this anymore. This _needs _to work."

_It was no surprise that one evening, eleven months after that Fourth of July, he didn't come in for supper._

Irene dropped to one knee, and the all-too-familiar salty taste returned. "No…_please_!"

_-The flowers didn't help. Nice work, Lindstrom, you screwed up a crime scene-_

"Please!"

_-You've got a problem. You're going crazy. You're finished- _

Too many voices in her head, too many memories. She took a deep breath and could taste dust in the air, dry Wyoming barn dust.

_When she finally found him, his face had turned purple. He had kicked off one boot and pissed his pants. He stayed that way until Sheriff Poole came to cut him down._

A tiny gasp whistled through clenched teeth. She bit her knuckles and slumped to the galled dirt.

She had been lying to herself. There was still one other option, and it was far more unpleasant than anything else.

Irene rocked forward and began to cry. Her balance gave out and she fell sideways into a bed of sagebrush and cheatgrass. Balled up, she committed herself to the Arklay Forest's soil.

Here lies Irene Evelyn Lindstrom, her parents' daughter, born with her mother's thick waist, her father's height, cursed with her mother's pride, her father's recklessness.

She cried, hugged her knees, and called out to a family that was fourteen years dead. And somewhere in the trees, a crow cawed in off-tune consolation.

**AN This chapter might be full of typos, as I'm pretty rusty with the whole writing thing. I would really appreciate it if you let me know if you find any.**

**Also, I have published a "Cliffnotes" for this story detailing all the major plot points. I figure it would help the reader keep up with what has happened so far, without having to re-read a ton of older chapters. You can find it at the bottom of my profile page.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	20. Five days in May

**July 4 1998 Gordon's Creek**

Irene laid still, curled like a cold weanling, rubbing the scar on her face, at the barren patches of scalp where no hair grew. The sun slid past its apex and slunk to the west, oversized and brassy. Scalloped altostratus crept over the battered mountains and streamed eastward in pincher formation around the setting sun.

It was the chill that stirred her, pricking the fine white hairs on her arms and neck, cooling the sweat on her back.

She stretched, rolled onto her knees and brushed the forest floor from her clothing. With a hand through her her hair, she squinted through the underbrush. The pond was liquid metal in the dying light, and above her, crows cawed from their pulpits in the trees. She jerked at their jailhouse screams and forked a spontaneous evil-eye at them, Galen Lindstrom's daughter in flesh and spirit.

Shovel in hand, she started for the truck. Springloaded branches snapped though thin cotton; she only just felt them. She felt hollowed-out, freeze-dried, and anaesthetized. Whatever grief she had felt was spilt into the soil, and what remained was left to be seen. The few things known with any certainty was that she had a midnight shift to pick-up, a uniform in need of starching, and a quarter-section's worth of dirt to wash off.

The shovel clanked as she tossed it into the truckbed. Ice-cream pails jounced in afterward. Though she would call Doc Matheson tomorrow, the flowers would stay where she had planted them. What was done was done, and the dead deserved what small dignity she had provided.

She made her way to the truck's cab. The gaslight sun smouldered through tree branches. Amber-stained clouds seemed to reflect the fires of a nearby Hell. In three hours, Independence Day fireworks would explode over the Arklay River while Officer Lindstrom drank coffee and chased beer-buzzed teenagers armed with roman candles and cherry bombs.

A sharp burr of annoyance pricked through, and she muttered a low curse. There were few days she hated more than the Fourth of July.

_The concussive rumble of Baker Creek's fireworks jarred her awake. She shot her head up, and was welcomed by an angry red throb from her torn face. Irene pressed a hand against the dressings and cast her sleep-muddled eyes around the flickering bedroom._

"_Anna?"_

A fumbling of keys, hold it together, Irene. Get the help you need. She straightened her hair, one of her mother's habits, she hated it. Sighing, she cranked the ignition.

Only, the engine didn't turn over. An erratic chattering sounded from under the hood.

"What?" She frowned and cranked the ignition over again, no sound at all.

"Come on, don't do this to me, Rusty." Another go with the ignition, another mechanical chattering. "Come on," **click-clickity click **"you…piece" **click **"of…shit!" She sucked air between her teeth and slammed the dash with both hands.

Irene jumped out of the cab, popped the hood and fumbled through the cooked leaves and grease for the starter wiring. A few quick tugs revealed that the cables were tight back to the battery. They were also warm, a bad sign if she remembered correctly.

Starter, it had to be the starter. The battery was less than a year old.

She wiped oily-brown hands on her thighs, re-entered the truck, and attempted the ignition again and again, muttering "come ons" in some manner of queer automotive sacrament.

"Come on," She closed her eyes. "just once."

The truck responded with an insectile chittering; her instrument lights blinked and went dead.

"Shit, shit, _shit!" _She swung a fist into the dashboard. The brittle vinyl cracked and coughed out dust.

Outside, the crows cawed in amusement.

She stepped out, and arms akimbo, surveyed the scene. The truck sat on even ground. There was no way to bump start it alone. She needed a tow. The Motor Pool mechanics, Grady's Towing, and Forest came to mind as options. Grady was prohibitively expensive; Forest was sharp enough to know that she was meddling in a crime scene, and the Motor Pool mechanics would be certain to alert the shift supervisor to where they were headed. Any way she turned, she would be exposed for the irresponsible weakling she surely was.

Irene drew a breath and screamed a hoarse Fuck into the lurid sky. The crows scrawed and hopped from one branch to another.

With furious hands acting on their own volition, she grabbed her backpack and slammed the door with enough fury to dislodge loose scabs of rust. Her mother's angry face glowered from the orange reflection in the truck's window. Irene contemplated destroying the glass with a well-placed rock.

She started down the road, embarrassed, troubled how she would explain her way out of this mess, as to how she would afford the repairs on her truck.

Only somewhere deep down, drowned by the screaming of her wounded pride, did a small voice remind her that she was alone in the Arklay Forest: a patch of wilderness notorious for extinguishing the lives of those foolish enough to have ventured into its lethal beauty.

An hour later, the sun kissed the horizon. Red-orange clouds simmered overhead like the pre-dawn remnants of an evening cookfire. She shouldered her backpack and shrugged away the evening cold. An abandoned headframe's black silhouette tottered against the livid clouds: a rough halfway marker to Jordan Road.

Irene continued, her feet tender and blistering in her father's old boots, her canvas Tough Duck zipped to her chin. The sun retreated under the treeline, and the sky darkened first to an oceanic blue, and then to a starless dark: black as freshly cultivated prairie soil. Parcel by parcel, the embers of the late evening sky were snuffed into the void. There would be no moon tonight, and Irene's line of sight terminated somewhere in the vicinity of an outstretched arm.

Irene, blind, alone, seven miles from the highway, continued.

Dried leaves crunched under western heels. Her breath came in even puffs, and fabric swished with every swing of her arms. These were the few sounds present in the eerie vacuum of those bloodslaked woods. Even the crickets' omnipresent chirping had ceased, and Irene recalled the image of rats fleeing a sinking ship. A faint breeze stirred a paling of stunted trees with the rattling of old bones, and Irene shivered and quickened her pace, hobbling on beleaguered feet.

She glanced at her watch. It was half past ten.

"Plenty of time."

And some sort of dog answered back: an unhealthy bestial howling which cut through the trees and riled her hackles like a plunge into February icewater. Irene frowned and spun. She had known all breed of dogs, tame and otherwise. She had known coyote, wolves. This was none of those things.

Familiar sweat beaded her forehead, and with one quick movement, her backpack was unslung. Her hands rifled though its contents, coming to rest as they fell on smooth metal.

Her service-pistol was cocked and ready by the time the animal in the woods let loose with another onslaught of inarticulate howls.

Moments later, several others answered back.

Irene hustled ahead, gun at hip, eyes scanning the cutline's stygian darkness. West of her, branches were being knocked aside with the brittle snap of dried corn stalks. One of the dogs yowled, yipped, how close? Fifty yards? Ten? One hundred?

Beretta at level, safety off.

Even steps crushed lightly through the fallen leaves. Slick hands fit perfectly around the pistol's custom grip. The Beretta's nightsights glowed with radioactive phosphorescence. Her heartbeat rang through her ears.

"This was a bad idea." She mouthed the words, terrified to speak. She could hear the dogs' ragged breathing: croupy and liquid as if they were drawing breaths through oil-soaked rags.

**CRACK!**

She drew a sharp breath and spun. Beyond the alien-green of her Tritium gunsights, a dark shape was bounding through the blueblack tangle of underbrush. Her breathing ceased altogether as she caught a glimpse of shimmering wet hide.

Ten yards back, the creature skittered to a halt, poked it's narrow muzzle to the moonless night and shrieked a distempered hunting call. White foam churned from its ragged mouth and curdled down its neck.

Irene exhaled a half-breath and let loose with a hail of bullets.

The dog had not yet pitched-over before she was turned, arms pumping, blistered and bleeding feet thudding down the hardpacked dirt.

"Not dogs….something…else," She couldn't afford the breath, but the words were spoken nonetheless.

She could hear them, howling, barking and coughing, and could only assume that they were giving chase. She tucked the gun into her jacket pocket and fumbled through her backpack**. **Just as her hands closed around the spare magazine, she caught in a tangle of unearthed roots she tumbled to the ground with a deflated Oof!

And though she tucked and rolled with an outfielder's agility, the backpack was gone, stolen into the black with no chance of return. Head up, breath at half-hitch, the dogs were still in pursuit. She found her legs and was running a moment later.

Bootheels clopped; her canvas jacket swished under her arms. She gave herself a frantic once over, could feel a sharp sting, cool blood on both knees. Her palms were skinned, but she still held her reload; she was okay.

And she screamed in frustration as she felt the soft emptiness of her gun pocket.

"No, no! _Please _be there!" She glanced back into the consuming dark of the trail behind, to where those dogs chased, to where her gun lay.

"Shit!" Tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks. Officer Irene Lindstrom loses her pistol and gets torn to pieces by a pack of wild dogs, a pathetic end to a promising young policewoman.

She wiped at her face and brought her head back to forward, just in time to run directly into the arms of another person on the trail. They fell together, ensnared, flailing and kicking.

"Who?…" Irene had ended up on top of the other man and began thrashing to her feet. "Wha-"

Her query was cut short as her throat clamped shut against the man's terrible stench. Immediately, the archival sections of her mind had branded the stink for what it was: the smell of decomposing human flesh. Nothing else on earth smelled like it.

The man's hands, peeled like old paint, groped at her face. Irene managed a small yelp before her throat forced another gag. Whoever this man was, he was covered in someone else's rot, and she wanted away from him with an ardour greater then her fear of the dogs which bayed somewhere behind her.

Irene stumbled to her feet, trembling and retching. The man groaned and snatched at her clothing. She turned, was a second from making her escape, before the man had managed a double handhold of ponytail and yanked back. And although the world around her dulled to the explosion of pain as her scalp was rent, it was quickly dwarfed by an onrushing wave of fury. Many an aggressor's face had met the abrasive grit of asphalt roadway, the hinged clamp of a squad car's back door, or the blunt edge of a baton for grabbing Officer Lindstrom's hair. With her mother's Olafson blood -Viking blood, if her grandfather was to be believed- boiling in her veins, her scream lowered into a guttural war-cry. She spun on her heels, right hand on ponytail, relieving the strain on her scalp, left arm up and bent at a right angle, accelerating through its arc until knuckles crashed into the man's temple. Her leg was up a moment later, driving his knee inward; the joint gave way with an audible pop, and they fell as a single squalling mass of thrashing limbs.

The horizon pinwheeled, dirt scoured her eyes and caked her teeth as they grappled and spun. Irene was lost to her temper, impervious to the man's carious funk, but pinned under his ungainly bulk. Her free hand shot forward with long fingers pointed for an eye-gouge, but Irene froze as high above the man's head the cast-iron sky exploded in a constellation of multicoloured sparks. Her scream died in her throat. She gaped at the rotten mask of flesh her assailant wore, doughy and mottled brown, like scum on a cesspool.

Another garish pyrotechnic photoflash glinted off the man's teeth. They were bared, coked with dark white edges reflected forgefire yellow as they raced toward the soft skin of her upper neck.

"Argh!" A hasty jerk of the arm spared her throat, but a rifleshot of pain flared to her shoulder as the man's bear-trap jaw snapped around her forearm.

A mortar burst above the man's dead mask. She could see her fingers spasming on one side of his bloody mouth, silhouetted by a sprinkling of cobalt streamers, and once again, the Olafson Anger returned.

She did not know where she found the rock, jagged dark granite, heavy and strong and pointed. She had no idea how she could have seen it in the first place. She was so consumed by her rage and desire to punish the man in the woods for attacking her, a police officer, that rational thought only returned once she was standing over his inert body, massaging life into her bitten arm and gazing at the reflected pyrotechnics in the man's dead eyes.

Blood dripped from the rock's sharp edge onto her boot-tip. Each drop shimmered in rainbow hues. The man's temple was stoved-in and wet and black.

"Killed him…" The words made it true. "He…bit me. His…face,"

Irene took a step away, that smell.

Only then, deadly close, loud even over the din of Raccoon City's Independence Day celebrations, did Irene hear the garrotted hunting call of those dogs.

"Shit!" She spun and ran. Her legs trembled and her arm screamed distress calls down the damaged communication lines of cross-wired nerves.

And above her multicoloured bombs burst.

And behind her the dogs gave chase and called to one another.

And Irene ran. Her blistered feet sloughed and bled. The scenery flickered in Technicolor hallucination.

And the dogs gave chase.

And Irene ran.

**AN- Hey everyone, I'm back in the writing saddle, and you can expect new chapters every month again, so I won't leave you guys dangling on that cliff for very long.**

**You keeners may have noticed that my writing style is a little different in this chapter. This was intentional on my part, I wanted to give it a bit of the "horror movie narrator feel" Hopefully I succeeded.**

**Also, I have posted a poll related to this story, I'd really appreciate it if you took the time to check it out (and it just might influence future chapters)**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	21. It Could Happen to You

**July 5 1998 Raccoon City.**

Irene turned away from her haggard reflection and allowed it to travel the interrogation room's dingy confines. The other walls offered little to look at, but the one-way mirror, the room's only true feature, offered a view best left ignored.

Her eyes grazed along the industrial steel table, to the empty seat across from her, to the tape recorder and memo pad. They all held unpleasant implications, best keep moving.

They roved on, past the cold cup of coffee, the danish she had no intention of eating, to the icepack that was ace-bandaged to her arm. She could read "Gibson's Chiropractic" printed in block lettering across the clear plastic. She could see livid purple skin where bag and bandage did not cover.

She gazed at the ceiling's watermarked acoustic panels. On the far side of the room, one of the fluorescents hummed and sputtered as if it were a gas starved engine, or maybe a dying heart. The light would seem to catch for a half-minute, providing steady illumination, before once again faltering into spasms.

Irene cracked an odd smile. Flicker and buzz, she felt the same way, erratic, and blown-out.

Irene shook her head; the light metaphor didn't quite fit. As her eyes settled on the room's antique fuse panel, she was reminded of the breaker box in her Uncle's machinery shed: a device rewired and spliced and mouse bitten to the point where it was unable to carry a circuit for any length of time without popping and needing to be reset, only to pop once more. She gave herself an affirmative nod and ran a hand through her hair. That was how she felt: overburdened, too spent to be of use.

Eyes back to the inconsistent light, why couldn't Irons spend less on artwork and budget towards replacing some of the station's ballasts? She shrugged to herself. Maybe the grim setting helped the detectives sweat a perp: a sneak peek into the wonderful world of being remanded into federal custody.

Irene wished she could have chalked-up her agitation to residual nerves from her incident in the woods, but there was no sense lying to herself. From the moment Brennan led her into the room, she had been on edge. His instructions were no relief either. _"Wait here. Irons wants to speak with you personally." _

The recalled conversation sent fresh rill of perspiration down her back. Chief Irons, king of all RPD, was on his way to interrogate her. How was she going to explain what she was doing up there? What had happened, what she had seen.

She glanced back at her injured arm, recalled the image of the man's teeth, bared and hungry. She could see his face, a face she recognised.

_-Victor Yendrowich, the Umbrella researcher. Or, parts of him-_

Irene shuddered and wrinkled her nose. Even after showering and changing into a uniform, she could still smell the rotten stench of human decay: a pervasive stink, greasy, impossible to wash off. The man in the woods was wearing Yendrowich's dead skin as a mask. These victims were hunted down, torn apart and skinned. It was bona-fide serial killer behaviour: something copied out that nutbar, Ed Gein's playbook. The Arklay Forest had already been home to one serial killer, Clive Havel, the mad trapper, could this have been a copycat?

_-No, Havel was a spree killer. This is different. This is worse-_

The circuit breaker popped; Irene didn't bother resetting it.

She ran her hands along unsteady legs which burned with excess lactic acid. Her toes wiggled, they were sunburn red and just barely visible under heavy bandages; they felt boiled.

_-I just might need a wheelchair; apparently running a half-marathon in cowboy boots was a bad idea, not that stopping was an option- _She attempted a laugh; it ended up sounding more like a sob.

"Those dogs…" She trembled and turned away from the raccoon-eyed girl in the one-way mirror. "They, just, wouldn't quit." The last word came out as a hitching sigh.

She could still hear them howling after her, could feel her legs quake and threaten to give out. She recalled her overpowering surge of relief as, down the path, came the dull glow of headlights on blacktop.

She leaned back and let out another shuddering breath. Her truck was still out there, so was her gun, so were those dogs. The RPD was scrambled as soon as she staggered through the precinct's double doors. Some other cop was going to get killed because of her.

The circuit breaker popped.

Footsteps grabbed at her attention. She turned to the door, but they continued on; not the chief.

"_You can wait here, Lindstrom. Chief Irons wants to take care of this personally."_

It was about time. To think that it had taken so many deaths, plus her own brush with disaster, for Irons to pay attention to the carnage in his backyard.

_-Get the STARS on the case, or the Feds, or the Army. It doesn't matter who. There's a psycho on the loose, and he has pets-_

"He was wearing someone's skin," She stole another glance at her pale reflection, at the bluish-red bruising on her inner arm. "He…he bit me."

Cannibals in the Arklay Forest, how had Geezer Thomas, of all people, misread the evidence on so many bodies?

Another question formed in her mind.

_-Why did Umbrella lie about Yendrowich's whereabouts? Why didn't anybody file a missing person's report on him?-_

The circuit breaker popped.

B risk footsteps clicked. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a Chief of Police who seemed to have agreed to go into competition with her as to who could look more dishevelled.

Officer Lundstrom," He eyed her with the cautious care of a man facing a loose bull.

She gave a single nod. "Chief,"

Irons lumbered to the other side of the table. His forehead was greasy with sweat, and his moustache frayed at the ends like old rope. The chair screeched like a rake on concrete as he pulled it out and settled into it with a grunt.

"How are you?…" He gestured with one hand and swallowed. "physically, I mean. Your, um…injuries."

Irene shrugged, "My feet hurt, I'm okay."

His eyes, muddy brown with the yellow corneas of a man who enjoyed alcohol a bit too much, settled on her arm. "The…" He chewed his bottom lip. "...bite?"

Irene undid the metal clips and allowed the tensor to unfurl. She turned her wrist so he could see the swelling and discoloured half-circles.

Irons hissed in a breath; his hands were trembling. "Is the skin broken?"

She regarded the bite, poked at the black points where the man's teeth had ruptured blood vessels.

She shook her head. "I was wearing a thick jacket. Don't think he could get through."

"That's good," Irons gave a heavy nod; his hands steadied. "who knows what sort of bugs he had in his mouth."

"Never really thought about that." She went about re-dressing her arm. "He looked like he hadn't seen a dentist in a while."

Irons brayed the short humourless laugh common to most law-enforcement and pushed himself closer. He fumbled a cassette into the recorder and grabbed the memo pad.

"Allright," He leaned forward; Irene could count the burst capillaries on his nose. "I'm not going to worry about what you were doing up there right now. I want to know every last detail of the attack. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that even the smallest detail can be incredibly important."

"Of course," Irene said, and frowned slightly. She did not appreciate being treated like a civilian and felt slightly galled that Irons was going through so much procedural bullshit for a statement she felt could have easily been a made in the squad room.

Irons seemed to pick up on this, and raised a friendly hand. "I know I'm going overboard here, but I'd like to be as thorough as possible. Too much has already been overlooked on this file." He smiled; Irene recalled that most animals bared their teeth when they felt threatened. "Now, shall we get started?"

She nodded and felt a nervous flush warm her cheeks.

Irons pressed record on the cassette player and fished a gold pen from his inner pocket.

"This interview is to be tape recorded. I am Raccoon Police Department Chief of Police Brian Irons. The date is the fifth of July, nineteen ninety-eight, the time of interview …" He checked his watch. "Twelve twenty, am. This interview is being held at Raccoon Police Department Central Precinct. There are no parties present other than myself and the interviewee."

He cast his small eyes at her. Irene squirmed in her bandages.

"Does the interviewee confirm that there are no other parties present?"

Irene sighed. "Yes, I confirm that there are no other parties present."

"Please state your name, address and date of birth."

"Raccoon Police Department Officer Irene Lindstrom, badge number One-Six-One-Four." She shied away from Irons' frown and glanced at her clasped hands. "DOB October twenty-seventh, nineteen seventy-four, address 29 Rivercrest Road, Raccoon City."

Irons fidgeted with the memo pad and smoothed back an unruly rooster comb on top of his head. "In your own words, describe the events which had taken place the evening of July fourth, nineteen ninety-eight."

Irene sighed and ran hand through her hair. The scalp underneath was still tender, and she ended up with a handful of loose strands.

_-He tried to bite me-_

Swallowing heavily, she began her long and bizarre story, and hoped that the circuit breaker wouldn't pop.

"Well, I had abandoned my vehicle at the site of the Connor deaths at approximately nine PM, heading on foot down the mining road with the intent of reaching County Road 128..."

Irene took her time, choosing her words carefully, maintaining the precarious balance between the avoidance of implicating herself in any misconduct and providing Irons with as much truthful information as possible. It was a difficult task at first, but she had taken enough statements to know what a cop looked for in an interview, and putting herself in the investigator's shoes helped insulate her from the trauma. As she spoke, she became less the victim and more the investigator.

By the time she had gotten to her escape and subsequent rescue by young Susan Kelso of Latham, it was she who seemed the interviewer, and Irons the witness, as he appeared to be retreating into himself; a pale-faced and sweating man who looked like he had eaten spoiled meat.

"It's pretty far-fetched sounding, Huh? Especially the part with the dogs," Irene laughed a bit, her ribs hurt. "Never seen a sick dog so angry; they must have had mange, or rabies."

She shrugged. "Odd thing was they seemed trained to attack. They never went after the guy who grabbed me."

Chief Irons responded with the tired groan of a man who had spent a summer day stacking square-bales. He plopped the memo pad onto the table; the front sheet was a still as white as fresh snowfall. He glanced at his wristwatch.

"The time is now, one thirty-nine. I am concluding the interview with Irene Lindstrom."

He clicked stop on the recorder and began filling out the Master Recording Label.

'Sign and date here," He pushed the form over to her.

Irene scooped the pen into her hand, it was heavy and awkward, difficult to use with her injured arm. She gave an inward sigh, Irons had X'ed where she was supposed to sign.

She scratched a shaky "I. Lindstrom" and pushed it back. Irons quickly sealed the paperwork and cassette into an evidence bag and pushed himself to his feet.

"Am I done, Chief?"

His yellow-brown eyes fixed on her. A dewdrop of sweat fell from his nose, onto the memo pad.

'Not just yet, Officer." The gold pen disappeared into his jacket. "I need to make a few calls. We'll discuss this further when I return."

Irene nodded and cast a longing glance at the coffee. She hated cold coffee. "Do I wait here?"

"I'd appreciate that." He grabbed the evidence bag and hustled to the door. His hands shook the knob open, and once again, she was alone.

_-Lucky he didn't cuff me too, I'm not sure what's worse. Being treated like a civvie, or a suspect._

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The effort in forming a coherent story of the night's events had sapped the last of her energy reserves. She hurt all over, was tired beyond anything she had experienced, and Irons had more questions in store. She had no idea how much longer she could last.

Irene permitted her gaze to travel to the mirror. The wild-eyed bag-lady seemed less present. The reflected image was that of Officer Lindstrom, an Officer Lindstrom in need of a hairbrush and a night's sleep, but Officer Lindstrom nonetheless. She took comfort in that.

The door creaked open, and Joe Gutierrez poked his head in. Concern was written plain on his deceptively youthful face.

"Hey, Joe." Irene allowed a small smile.

"Hey, Lindstrom, you're alive."

"Sure am," Her grin widened as she saw the large coffee he held. "Hey, I'll trade you a danish for that coffee."

Joe returned her smile. "Deal," He closed the door behind him and plucked up the pastry. "How you doing?"

Irene grabbed the cup from Joe and took a heavy pull. It was black with one sugar; the man was a prince.

"I'm okay, I screwed my feet up pretty good. Arm hurts."

Joe craned his neck for a better view. "Yeah, bites are hell. I remember this one time, me and Vince Danielson just went ten-twenty-three on a domestic, and-"

"This crazy little bitch in nothing but a pair of sweatpants scoots across the floor and bites you just above the ankle, you couldn't play ball for a week."

Joe chuckled. "Heard that one already?"

"Once or twice."

"Running out of good material, I'd better start making stuff up." He poked at the cassette recorder. "Why are they taking your statement in here? There's no one in the other room."

"Your guess is as good as mine. How's things in the woods?"

Joe took a bite of danish.

"They sent most of Ward-two up there, and both K9s are en-route. Jordan Road is nothing but cherries and blueberries, real combat fashion. Just got off the Motorolla with Marv and Moose. They say it's spooky as Hell up there, nothing's moving. Don't doubt if the K9s'll freak out again."

He shook his head. "Something's fucked-up in that forest."

"Did they send the STARS?"

Joe ignored her question. He set down the doughnut and leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed.

"What the Hell were you looking for in those woods, Irene? You had no business being up there."

Her guilty face stared back from the one-way, and so she returned her gaze to the lame fluorescent. Was there even a point in lying to him?

"Why I was there?" She rolled up her cuff and flashed the stainless steel chain she wore on her wrist. It was the only jewellery she wore while on duty.

"My mom gave me this when I graduated Police Academy." She turned the pendant so Joe could read the inscription. "I took it off when we were examining the Connor girl, kept tearing the gloves." She shrugged and kept her eyes on the ceiling. "Must have fallen out of my pocket. I found it on the game trail."

Joe crossed his arms. "That so?"

She met his eyes. "Yeah, it is."

He nodded and finished off the danish with a single enormous bite. He got to his feet and started for the door. "I guess we'll need another center fielder for a while."

"For a while,"

"Take care, Lindstrom. Don't do anything else crazy."

Irene chuckled "I'll leave the crazy up to you from now on."

Joe smiled the closed-lip grin he reserved for unpleasant witnesses and was gone without another word.

Irene slouched in her chair and flipped the pendant over.

**Officer Irene Lindstrom **

**July 7 1994**

** So proud, Mom.**

Sighing, she rolled her cuff back down.

Ten minutes later, familiar footsteps clicked on the other side of the entrance, and soon Chief Irons' sweaty bulk was filling the doorframe.

"They found your gun and purse." He settled into the chair.

Irene nodded and felt her cheeks redden. "And the perp?"

Irons glanced at her. "No sign of him."

_-What?-_

"B-but he was dead, I'm sure of it. I mean, I-"

"Don't worry." He waved a hand. "I'm not disputing anything you've told me. He's just, _not there _anymore."

"But…who could have?" Her head was pounding again. "What are we going to do?"

He eyed her once more. One hand was sifting through the folds of his blazer.

"I'm calling all units back until first light. Too dangerous out there when it's this dark. Besides, the K9s are acting…unusual."

"What…_why_? I mean, there's crazies running around the woods. You've got to-"

Irons' yellow gaze and thunderous brow killed the words in her throat. Irene straightened.

"I have to what?"

Irene didn't answer.

"Do you smoke, Lundstrom?"

She shook her head.

He pulled out a thick cigar and clamped it between his teeth. "Mind if I?"

"No, of course not."

Irons smiled, flipped the triangular "No smoking" sign over, and sparked-up with a gold-plated Zippo. A moment of silence passed as he puffed furiously, looking like a sick engine on a cold day. Once the cigar was smouldering nicely, he dropped the hand and wiped his forehead. Smoke wafted out of his nostrils, from the corners of his mouth.

"Now, to answer your question, Officer," He smiled, but his eyes had the look of an animal being led to slaughter. "here, is what we will be doing."

**Front page Raccoon Herald July 5 1998**

**Cider District celebrations a success**

**Alyssa Ashcroft**

By all counts the relocation of Independence Day celebrations went off without a hitch, and Festival co-ordinator Deb Perrin claimed to be "extremely pleased" with community involvement and enthusiasm.

The evening's only complaints were regarding the Racoon Police Department's blockading of County Road 128 to Latham and subsequent traffic delays. Department spokesman Patrick Davies stated the blockade was "a precautionary measure" and "no cause for public alarm"

**Page A3 Hillsboro Argus July 6 1998**

**Missing Hillsboro man discovered in Raccoon City**

**Katherine Falk**

Authorities have identified the individual found alone and unresponsive on the shores of Victory Lake, the site of many recent violent slayings, as missing Hillsboro resident Jeremy Houseman.

Houseman, 31 was declared missing along with his wife Laura Houseman, 29, after failing to check in with family following a solo canoe trip along the isolated Skene River. The couple was last seen departing Cline Falls Campground on June 27.

Efforts are underway to locate Laura Houseman.

**Editorial page Raccoon Herald July 7 1998**

**Raccoon City looking for its missing STARS**

**Allison Greaves**

As the Raccoon Police Department once again urges public calm after the discovery of partial human remains on the banks of the Skene River outlet. This paper must question RPD senior officials' decision not to deploy the RPD's elite Special Tactics and Rescue Service, a paramilitary branch formed especially for such circumstances.

Despite earning recognition for their successful intervention in the sensational "Mad Trapper" killings two winters ago, neither STARS unit has yet to contribute in any significant measure to the current…

**AN The Clive Havel "Mad Trapper" killings I referred to in this chapter are taken from the wonderful (and talented) Chaed's fic "Corpus Delicti" a premansion STARS fic so good I consider it canon. If you haven't read it yet (or any of her other work) go do that now.**

**Once again, a big high five to my reviewers, lurkers only get low fives.**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	22. Is there anybody out there?

**July 8 1998, Raccoon City**

The receiver was slick with sweat. After being on hold for twenty minutes, his ear burnt as if he was holding a steam-iron instead of a telephone. His stomach boiled and sent hot metal into his mouth.

And yet, Lawrence was shivering as if he had stepped into a December blizzard wearing nothing but his britches.

_"You disappoint me, Jenkins. Our organization pays you handsomely to handle such situations. Your lack of planning and leadership reflects poorly on my decision to advance you to your current office."_

He could feel ice crystals forming on the earpiece. Sweat rolled out of his hairline and sizzled on his cheeks.

"I've already told you, Wesker. I can't keep a lid on this much longer." His fingers were frostbitten tight around the receiver, they shook. "There's BOW's loose, a cop got attacked by a carrier. She got a few shots off on an MA39. This situation is _not _sta-"

_"I…do not…care."_

The mechanoid voice on the other line stopped Lawrence short. He might as well have well been arguing with a coffee maker.

_"I have been in contact with Irons. He assures me that the situation is under control. I am assuming that you have deployed the URC security detail to contain the freed subjects?"_

Lawrence swallowed; he tasted vinegar and soap. "No, I can't. The head of security's been-"

Wesker's sigh sounded like a northern wind through an open window. "_And why, exactly, is that?"_

Lawrence grit his teeth, felt his insides clench as anger simmered. "Would you _let _me finish?"

A pause, _"Go ahead."_

"Vladimir knows_._"

No response on the other end.

"He _knows _something's up. Somehow he found out, someone leaked something. He's got Duvall flying out of the Paris branch."

Fifteen seconds crawled past; his stomach burbled. Footfalls echoed down the hall.

"Are you still there?"

A click of the tongue._ "Of course I'm still here."_

"Duvall will be pretty suspicious if the security team is stomping a search-line through the woods."

_"I appreciate your spelling that out for me."_ Sarcasm, Wesker's only form of humour.

"And he'll check the security team's log, any recent activity will definitely clue him in."

_"Yes, it certainly would."_

"So, what do you suggest?"

Another lengthy pause. _"When does Duvall arrive?"_

Lawrence glanced, first to the dinner-plate sized circle of unstained wall, where an electric clock had once tolled the countdown to his ruination, and then to his gold Bulova.

"_Buzz, tick. Sergei knows."_

"We have just over two hours."

More silence. _"He will want to meet with the facility directors."_

"No doubt," Lawrence agreed.

_"Annette Birkin will not be a problem."_

"Unless she's the one who tipped off Vladimir."

_"I can assure you that it was not Annette."_ Wesker's voice coloured with just the faintest bit of irritation. _"Or her husband."_

"Fine," Lawrence found himself nodding. "The Birkins are on our side. He'll want to meet with Sarton, though. That _will _be a problem."

More silence.

_"Perhaps Doctor Sarton has been preoccupied due to a development in the Tyrant program? I'm sure a conference on the Sat-phone could be arranged, though."_

_-Preoccupied due to a development in the Tyrant program, you have no idea how right you are, Albert-_

Lawrence shrugged. "Sarton had a pretty distinctive voice."

_"Duvall is a fool."_

"What if he wants to visit the facility?"

He could hear Wesker's sigh through the phone, could imagine a winter fog streaming from the earpiece._ "You are a competent man, Jenkins. I have no doubt that you are clever enough to divert him."_

Lawrence took a deep breath and arched his back. "Was that a compliment? Or are you washing his hands of this?"

No response.

_"I will be returning from Montana shortly."_ Wesker's words were overly spaced, spoken with the accurate English of an educated foreigner, or an automatic telephone directory. _"Keep Duvall occupied."_

"And what about the cop? The one who got attacked. There's also a canoeist who was found on Victory Lake and-"

_"I know about the canoeist. Get rid of them both."_

Lawrence let out a breath and thumped the cantaloupe-sized knot out of his chest.

"But-"

_"I will remind you, one last time. You are responsible for keeping these matters quiet. Work with Irons, control the information being released. If this situation escalates any further, I will find no one other than this office at fault. Are we clear?"_

Lawrence managed to choke out a yes.

_"Are we crystal?"_

He blinked. "Pardon me?"

A click of the tongue. _"Are we, crystal clear?"_

He found himself nodding. It was stupid. It wasn't as if Wesker could see him. "Yes, we're _crystal _clear."

_"Fantastic."_ Lawrence could picture Wesker's mirthless grin, gleaming like the edge of a guillotine.

And the line went dead, leaving Lawrence with the catastrophe that was the outbreak, the catastrophe that was his rebellious nervous system.

He managed to thaw his fingers enough to relinquish the telephone, returned it to its cradle and slumped back with eyes closed.

BOWs were loose, attacking civilians in the Arklay Forest.

Eyes open, he held steady long enough to check the time.

"_Buzz, tick…. You have two hours until Duvall arrives."_

Head on his desk, there was battery acid in his mouth and nasal cavity. His hands clawed against his thighs.

Duvall was on his way; Sergei knows.

He swallowed and wrapped his arms around his midsection. His stomach and esophagus pumped like a bellows stoking a wood furnace. He couldn't breathe.

"_Get rid of them both."_

Groaning, he snatched the wastebasket at his feet. The edge had just made contact with his chin before a steady stream of vomit filled the bottom inch. He swallowed, took a breath that burned with chlorine, soap and salt, and vomited once more.

Teary eyes stared at the foul stew of pink throw-up. A raspberry-swirl of dark blood curled around a floating post-it note.

Disgusted, he dropped the garbage can with a tinny "clank" and mopped around his mouth. He had stubble that could grate cheese, and tufts of Kleenex clung to him like a tiny cottonball beard.

_-Just breathe. Just breathe-_

He tottered to his feet, lurched to the office windows and squinted at the streets below. Grey, early morning drizzle bleached the vivacity of the morning commute, turning the scene into a city of ashes filled with the walking dead.

He rested his head on the cold window glass_. _Miles away, the tainted Arklay facility spread its disease, like a locust horde.

And Albert Wesker was doing nothing to stop the infestation.

"_Get rid of them both."_

Cold, unreadable Wesker. The man belonged in a leather greatcoat and hobnailed jackboots. His Teutonic countenance only served to accentuate the image of an impersonal Waffen-SS Obersturmführer: a creature capable of ordering mass murder with the casual disinterest of a man ordering coffee.

Lawrence took a deep breath. He was no such creature.

He glanced at his hands, they shook like an epileptic's, but had remained unbloodied, up until this point.

What would happen if he disobeyed Wesker?

_-You know what would happen-_

Was his life worth more than that of a police officer and Jeremy Houseman?

_-Wesker would also kill Sharon and Julie- _

Wesker would kill Julie, who was four months' pregnant with her first child, his first grandchild.

He wiped his forehead along the cool window.

"_Buzz, tick. You have to decide."_

Lawrence closed his eyes. Raccoon City's pulse reverberated against the glass.

"God help me."

* * *

**Page A2 Raccoon Herald July 9 1998**

**Victory Lake "Mystery Man" In critical condition following heart attack**

**Ben Bertolucci**

Reports from Raccoon City Hospital indicate that the man discovered unresponsive on the shores, identified as Hillsboro resident Jeremy Houseman, had suffered acute respiratory depression and heart failure early yesterday evening and remains in critical condition.

Houseman's attending physician, Doctor George Hamilton, was reported as being "at this point uncertain" what had caused Houseman's sudden onset of symptoms, but stresses that the condition has stabilised and "a battery of tests" are being performed in order to positively identify

* * *

**AN- Okay all you Wesker fans, creepy uncle cjjs wrote this chapter just for you. I hope you enjoyed my Wesker (please be kind)**

**Stay tuned**

**-C**


	23. The Boxer

**AN- Guess who discovered page breaks? I am so excited!**

**July 9 1998 Arklay Forest**

It had taken many, many years for Alan Merritt to come to the conclusion that old age was a blessing. The afternoon's hike to Stony Point had aggravated his rheumatism and fused his back into a crooked sickle, but he was alive. The day was his to enjoy; God was good. He grunted, slung his gear onto a nearby tree branch and settled himself onto a fallen log. He turned his head to the perfect afternoon sky and mumbled a smiling thanks. Sure, he ached. Sure he needed to take a leak every half-hour, but his heart was strong, his vision was good, and his memory was unclouded.

His memory was unclouded: the most generous gift of all. Jordan had been stolen from him, lost to the impenetrable fog of Alzheimer's, an inexplicably cruel act for a loving God, but still he remembered.

He remembered the sour tang of soot and exhaust as he rocketed down Millsbrook Hill on a borrowed Schwinn.

He remembered Jordan's bare skin and small breasts, amber in the lamplight, her dove-gray eyes, the wedding band she refused to place on the nightstand.

He remembered his reflection in Daniel's tiny eyes. That calm little face of a philosopher on the verge of uncovering the intent of mankind.

He smiled and pushed the binoculars out of the way, fumbling through his breast pocket. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and shook one loose.

Yes, clear memory was a blessing.

_-Out of the same mouth came forth blessing, and cursing. These things, my brethren ought not to be so-_

His hands trembled as he sparked up, arthritis, not nerves, he insisted.

He remembered his father: brutal face, brutal hands, calloused and white around a length of cordwood.

He remembered his servile mother, her head caved-in, blood on barnboard.

A mosquito landed on his arm, directly atop his wrinkled Marine Corps 'globe and anchor' tattoo. He chased it off with the hot end of his cigarette.

And, of course, he remembered Okinawa.

_In the dark and the rain, there was no way of differentiating between the Jap soldiers and the civilians. Everyone was kitted in the same suit of mud, and everyone who came between their gunsights was cut down. _

_Their eyes wept dirt and cordite. His M3 was already on its second barrel; there was a bullet hole through his canteen. Their Gunny had been killed that morning, leaving himself, a lowly Corporal, in charge of the remaining nine men._

_The world seemed to explode as a parachute flare burst overhead, freezing the squad in phosphorus-white light. A moment later, came the shriek and crumple of mortar rounds, came the mudslick men who gibbered in a strange and terrifying language, came the rifles and bayonets and curved swords that glowed silver in the flare's witchlight._

"_JAPS ON THE LEFT FLANK!"_

_Another blinding flash, and a wall of mud came alive as a sort of malevolent giant, swallowing him into its sticky, wet gullet. Hot metal tore through his chest and flashed red behind his eyes. He dropped his M3, saw his helmet tumble into the darkness._

He closed his eyes until the memory faded back to its rightful place: that dusty folder containing a young adulthood steeped in brutality and bloodshed, an incongruous file in an otherwise peaceable ledger.

A crow cawed somewhere in the trees. He drew on his cigarette, coughed, and pitched the remaining half over the cliff. The burning ember exploded in small red sparks as it tumbled to the river far below.

Alan stood with both hands pressed to his blown-out hip. He arched his back and winced through the sharp pain, a reminder that he really should have stretched before sitting down.

"_You're seventy-three, Dad. Learn to take it easy, already."_

Yes, he was seventy-three-years old. Thirty of said years were spent hunched over a metal lathe. Three of said years were spent destroying his fellow man in the name of national defence, and yet the Lord was still inclined to allow him to spend an afternoon hiking through the Arklay Forest's rocky bluffs. The Lord was generous enough to allow him to spend an afternoon watching Ralph and Alice dance.

_-Now, our God, we give you thanks, and praise your glorious name-_

He had no intention of taking anything "easy."

Back at his kit, he pushed aside the short-barrelled Ruger and sorted through the haversack for his camera and tripod. Gear in hand, he stepped back, and stopped to frown at the rifle. The Ruger Mini-14 was not so different from the M1 Carbine he and his fellow Marines carried to Okinawa, and he saw the weapon as an offence to Alice and Ralph's kingdom. It was a symbol of Man's wickedness upon a landscape he found to be the closest to thing to Heaven this existence provided.

"_Dad, you've gotta stay out of those woods." Natalie crossed her arms and scrunched her face into that little pout she had carried from infancy into adulthood. "Don't you watch the news? There's people getting killed there all the time."_

He glanced back at the rifle. Reservations aside, life had taught him that caution trumped catastrophe every time.

"No need to worry about your old dad, sweet." He settled himself onto the fallen log and unlooped the binoculars. If anything wanted to take a bite out of his scrawny ass, they would have one hell of a fight first.

He smiled and shaded his vision with one hand. The valley before him was a scene prior to Man's fall from grace. The verdant mottle of trees gave way to charcoal cliffs which sparkled with embedded quartz and tumbled a hundred feet to where the Skene River earthwormed along the granite boulders in a strip of polished chrome.

Songbirds flitted in and among the trees; a crow cawed. Further down the valley, Alice called to Ralph in her little yelping chirps: a delicate sound for such a majestic creature.

"All feathered things yet ever knowne to men," He brought the binoculars to his face. "From the huge Rucke, unto the little Wren." A quick scan upriver, and there she was, ascending from the brown camouflage of that abandoned mansion into the sapphire sky, her square wings, wider than Alan was tall, outstretched, sailing the zephyr-like breeze.

Alan had always thought of she and Ralph as descendants of the mythical Roc, but with their heads ablaze in gilded light, it was difficult not to think of the Phoenix as well.

"Afternoon, beautiful." He noticed the small bird that hung lifeless from her curved beak. "You bring home something nice?"

Alice settled into their eyrie on the opposite cliff and began a friendly chatter with her waiting husband.

Alan grinned to himself, it pleased him to know that humans were not the sole species who mated for life. And though he had always prided himself a man of strong faith, the three years' spent with Ralph and Alice had truly helped affirm that life was a beautiful thing. It was more his treks into the forest, witnessing the birds' devotion to one another, than anything else that had helped him withstand Jordan's wretchedly slow decline.

He creaked to his knees and began setting up the tripod. The sun was high; the sky was clear. It was an ideal day for some high-speed shots.

-_Use a high ISO setting, and the six-hundred lens. Let's get nice and close today_-

With the enormous telephoto lens and tripod, the thing looked more like a telescope than a camera, and in a way, he supposed it was. Peering through the camera's viewfinder, he could see the sun reflected in the birds' dark, intelligent eyes. He snapped a photo just as Ralph bent his head so Alice could pluck a stray piece of fluff from between his wings.

"Such a good wife." He smiled and took another photo. Jordan had always worried over his hair as well.

He leaned away from the camera. After Jordan's death, Daniel and Natalie had fretted over him with impressive tenacity_. _There simply would not be a conversation without their insistence that he move to the new senior's high-rise in the Cider District. _"How are you going to keep living here Dad?" Again Natalie with her angry little girl face. "It'll drive you nuts." _

He chuckled; kids were softer these days.

His afternoons spent with Ralph and Alice, evenings spent in his basement's makeshift darkroom, Fridays at the Legion, and Sundays at church, it was more than enough to chase away the darkness.

He surely was not going to end up like Henry Boyd and spend every waking moment carping about life's misery. It really came as no surprise that the idiot drank himself to death.

Alan frowned; Boyd was disgusting, an affront to God's gift of life. His death was just as grave a sin as murder.

Another recalled scene from his nightmarish forty-nine days at Okinawa: the revulsion felt as his company came upon the Jap soldiers who had taken their own lives. Most of the officers had used swords and sliced open their bellies. Sometimes an entire squad would huddle around a cooked grenade, but it was the rifle killings that troubled him the most. The Jap's Type-99 rifles were far too long to be used as effective suicide weapons, and so the soldiers would often remove their boots and pull the trigger with their toes; it was obscene.

Years later, his views on mankind would mature to the point where he could differentiate his Baptist convictions from those of the Japanese Bushido. He would never condone them (for as far as he was concerned, every Jap who took their own life had simply expedited their own journey to Hell) but at seventy-three, he was capable of accepting them.

But those little Jap soldiers, whitefaced, barefoot with their mouths around their rifle-barrels, he would remember those fools until his final hour.

_-Gloomy today, aren't we?- _Jordan's voice. She would never fully leave him.

"Not gloomy, love." He brought the binoculars back to his face. "just poking at the coals."

He traced along the cliffs, watching as Ralph took flight, diving first to gain speed and then ascending until he was a black cross superimposed over the sun.

"Still hungry, big guy?" The nickname was a misnomer as Ralph was on the smallish size for a golden eagle, his wife nearly a third larger than he.

"Where you off to?" It was odd. Ralph was headed toward the old mansion as well. Normally both birds stuck to the clearings further east. "What're you guys finding over there?"

He swung the camera over and followed Ralph's circular flight pattern, anticipating his signature dive-bomb.

And just as Alan had the bird square in the viewfinder, Ralph tipped his head to the ground, bent his broad wings and dove at nearly a right angle. It was an unusual hunting technique for an eagle, but Ralph had mastered it.

"You magnificent creature." Alan pressed the shutter button at just the right moment; he knew it was going to be an amazing picture.

He grinned and felt for his cigarettes, a shot that good deserved a victory smoke.

Only he didn't make it to his cigarettes. A chorus of rusty screeches and a scattering of black shapes exploded from out of the trees. Crows, more than he had ever seen, were filling the sky like oversized hornets enraged at the destruction of their nest.

Somewhere in the thick of the swirling confusion Ralph beat his wings, his powerful legs were extended and kicking, tearing clods of black feathers from his adversaries.

"Get 'em, Big Guy!" He shot to his feet, binoculars up. This would be good.

In the swirling avian dogfight, Ralph climbed, his head bobbing, snapping at any bird who came within range of his scissor of a beak. Meanwhile, the crows pursued, screeching like motors with bad bearings.

Black feathers, entire birds, their wings bent like radar rakes, tumbled to the river below, while Ralph's cries, almost entirely drowned-out by his opposers, echoed off the cliffs.

Alan frowned. He had never heard Ralph screech like that before; it sounded like a human scream.

"What? No."

The binoculars drew him right into the fray. Several of the crows, Davids, to Ralph's Goliath, had latched onto his wings. Ralph was falling, spiralling like a Corsair hit with antiaircraft fire.

_-That's impossible. A crow could never do that-_

"HEY!" He dropped the binoculars and shook both fists. "STOP IT!"

Brown feathers mingled with black. A crow caught in Ralph's mouth scrabbled at his face before it was snapped in half. Both pieces continued their struggle as they fell.

_-What in the world? They shouldn't be able to do that-_

A black shadow darkened his station as Alice passed above, scarcely a foot from the top of his head.

Alan ran a hand through his hair. Ralph was now a brown ball, wings tucked-in, freefalling with several crows attached, and Alice was screeching the same cry Ralph had adopted. Her wings caught the sun and flashed fiery-gold as she charged into the fray.

-_Crows, so many crows- _

Soon they had her surrounded as well, like ants on a sugarcube.

_-Not her too!-_

"HEY!"

_-The gun!-_

His knees cracked as he shambled to his gear. The rifle was Ruger's standard blued steel, but as he shouldered the gun and chambered a round, it glowed with the holy fire of Archangel Michael's sword.

Defend the poor and fatherless, do justice to the afflicted and needy: the word of God. Surely it would apply to all creatures.

His throat tore with the force of his scream. He opened fire, a pair of crows on Alice's left flank exploded into red and black mist.

"C'MON!" He waved the rifle over his head. "OVER HERE!"

He shouldered the rifle and took sloppy aim. Another crow burst into red-black fluff with the third bullet fired; while Alice, smart girl that she was, took advantage of the clearing and swept into a dive. The crows, raging as if their tiny bodies contained the devil himself, flapped in pursuit.

"OVER HERE!" Another of the possessed birds disintegrated, he could smell gunsmoke and fear-sweat. "COME GET ME!"

And then, almost as if they were acting as a single entity, the swarming mass of crazed birds changed their vector of attack, away from Alice, to the small, angry man with a rifle.

_-That's right, you flying maggots- _He squinted through the peep sights; the closest bird lost a wing and spiralled out of control.

_-Over here; come get me- _A quick adjustment and the lead crow's wingman burst like a grenade; pieces of bird spattered onto his face.

Alan tumbled behind the fallen tree a heartbeat before the swarm passed by. His left side exploded in pain as it hit the rocky ground and his goading scream was stifled into a gasp, but before he could even take stock of his injuries, he saw that the black horde had already wheeled and was bearing down on him again. His breath caught midway; if one of those things could draw blood, an entire squadron would pick him to the bone.

"_JAPS ON THE LEFT FLANK!"_

The log was too low to slide under, and so over he must go. His rickety frame had made it partway when the first birds hit, smashing into him like well struck hardballs, sending him reeling.

Soon, he was a man lost in a world of pointed impacts, papercuts, and infuriated screaming. He found himself helpless, flailing at the dark, noisy shapes, back-pedalling, wanting away.

And suddenly, there was no ground under his feet, and he was careening sideways. Dark shapes and blue sky and gray cliffs filled his vision.

He was well on his way to the bottom of the ravine before he had realised what was happening. He could see his camera and tripod high above. His shoelaces fluttered upward.

He could smell riverwater, could hear the crows overhead; they sounded satisfied.

The strange thing was, he didn't even feel it when he hit.

* * *

_Alan cracked an eye to the wet, black night. His mouth was full of mud. He couldn't move his arm, could barely breathe._

_There was motion ahead: a black shadow of a man; moonlight glinted off his bayonet. _

_He spat out the wad of muck and coughed. The shape turned toward him._

_-Please don't let it be a Jap-_

"_Hey," The man had an Indiana farmboy accent; he was good. "That you, Corporal?"_

Alan cracked an eye to the afternoon sun and propped himself on one elbow. "Yeah, get me out of here."

He tried to get up; he couldn't feel his legs. His head was too heavy.

The world went dark.

* * *

_Alan woke as he felt gentle tugging on his arm. He blinked, and opened his eyes to a gorgeous woman dressed in a crisp-white nurse's uniform. A loose strand of auburn hair tickled his chest._

"_Afternoon, Corporal." Her face was serious, that of a woman at work, but her soft gray eyes were kind and smiling. "It's time to change your dressings. We'll need to roll you over."_

Alan woke as he felt rough tugging at his hip. He blinked, and opened his eyes. Someone was hunched at his feet. His vision was off, but he could see a gray suit, a white coat. The man was fumbling at his leg. Alan could feel nothing, but there was blood, so much blood.

_-A doctor?-_

He wiped his face; one arm was next to useless, bent at an odd angle. His upper body felt as if he had been run through a press, while his lower half was dead. He tried to pull himself upright, but only made it halfway before his strength gave out. His head thumped against the stony shore; he could see his rifle at his side, still slung under one arm.

"How…bad…am, I?" Oh Lord, it hurt to talk.

The man answered with a grunt, and pulled at his leg. Alan felt himself jerk with the man's rough handling. Something stabbed into his side; the world dulled to darkening shades of gray.

"Ow! Watch it, doc."

_-How did they find me so quick. It's a miracle.-_

No, it didn't make sense. He glanced at the sun, it had barely moved. Less than an hour had passed. There was no way someone could have gotten help.

"Hey?" He managed to get on one elbow; he tried to focus.

_-Who is this guy?-_

His medic grunted another answer. Alan managed to swat an arm at him before collapsing, but not before seeing grey skin, a messy red mouth with a long strip of hairy meat dangling from between bloody teeth.

_-….What in the name of?-_

Alan's heartbeat pounded as he attempted to piece together what was happening.

He recalled his fall.

_-I'm paralysed-_

There was an other grunt, a wet sound. His body jerked with another rough yank.

"The…man,"

_-Is not a doctor-_

Alan rolled his head to the right; his Ruger stared back.

"The…man"

_-Is eating, something-_

He was fumbling for the gun. The stock was broken, but by God's grace it would still work.

_-Why?-_

He could feel his heart thudding against his broken ribs. He got the rifle pointed in the right direction.

"HEY!"

The man looked up; his lower jaw, covered in dark red matter, hung wide. He was covered in blood.

_-He's….eating?-_

Alan pulled the trigger, and the gun kicked away. His head cracked against the ground.

The world went dark.

* * *

_Jordan took very good care of him. She was a gentle woman who listened much and spoke only kind words. And although there were two-dozen other men on her watch, it pleased him to think that she was most attentive to him._

_He smiled as she neared. She returned his smile and brushed aside an auburn ringlet. "Awake already, Corporal Merritt?"_

"_Yes Ma'am."_

Alan gazed to the sky, the sun was lower now. At his feet, he could see the crumpled shape of the degenerate who had been attacking him.

_-He was trying to eat me. God give me strength; he was trying to eat me- _

Natalie's stern warning about the murders in the woods rang through his ears. Oh, why didn't old men listen to their children? It seemed as though pride did, in fact come before the fall.

"I'm…so sorry, sweet." His teeth chattered.

_-So cold-_

He let his head drop.

* * *

_He had been shivering for half an hour before Jordan came. Her gray eyes flashed with concern as soon as she drew back the curtains._

_"Alan?"_

"Yes, love?"

_She pressed a hand to his forehead. "You're running a fever."_

"I feel…okay."

_"Why didn't you call for me?" _

"I…didn't want to worry you?"

_She ran an affectionate hand along his face. "Men and their pride." She laughed. "Come on, now. Let's take your temperature. Put this under your tongue."_

Alan nodded. The thermometer was large. It tasted like gunpowder.

"_Now, hold it here."_

Alan obeyed. He was sick, he needed to help Jordan help him.

"The part that feels like a trigger?" His words, hindered by the thick steel, came out like mashed potatoes.

"_That's right, honey." She smiled and stroked his cheek. "We'll make you better."_

Behind her, a doctor grunted a hello.

Alan smiled and shut his eyes. His hands closed around the thermometer's trigger. At least he wouldn't have to use his toes.

"_It's okay, Honey. Just squeeze when you're ready."_

His eyes watered. "Okay, love,"

_-Wait, NO!-_

Eyes wide, he gagged in revulsion as he spat away the rifle barrel.

_-The Devil and his trickery-_

Jordan had never even been his nurse; he had met her while on furlough in Hawaii. To think that he had nearly condemned himself to eternal damnation.

There was tugging at his lower half. Jordan may have been the machinations of a man in his moment of weakness, but the doctor was real. Somehow he was still alive.

"Get away!" He spun the rifle, aimed toward the doctor, and fired. The recoil laid him flat.

The world went black.

* * *

When he woke next, the sun was behind the cliffs. Long shadows bent down the valley, and high above, Alice circled, no doubt pining for Ralph's return.

A slow smile covered his chattering teeth. Above Alice, beyond the clouds, just as the eagle waited for her mate's return, Jordan waited for his.

He could see her plain as day. She was alone on a Honolulu dance floor. The tropical breeze played at the hem of her floral dress; he could hear Glenn Miller's 'Moonlight Serenade'. Her hands were clasped, her face framed by gentle rings of autumn red. Her gray eyes searched for him.

"Soon enough, love."

"And as for you," The doctor was clawing at his legs. There were two holes in his chest.

Alan steadied the rifle and added a third.

"If you want me, you're gonna have to fight me."

* * *

**AN- Okay, kids. Who can tell me the significance of the names Jordan, Ralph and Alice?**

**If you get all three, you (might) win a prize!**

**And the line "All feathered things yet ever knowne to men. From the huge Rucke, unto the little Wren." Are those of the poet Michael Drayton, not mine. So you can send him some love too.**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	24. Harvest Moon

**July 9 1998 Raccoon City**

The balmy late evening breeze tousled Irene's hair and cooled the sweat on her forehead, but it also made every shadow come alive and reach for her. Ominous shapes prowled behind her lilac bushes, kept at bay by her island of light, but closing in all the same. And though the breeze was perfumed with a late-evening barbecue's mesquite smoke it also carried the creek's swampy foulness. The combined odour of cooked meat and organic rot made Irene's stomach do a small backflip; it was the smell of corruption, death.

Irene clutched the old guitar tight and twitched her restless eyes to the blackened corners. She knew that she had every right to be agitated for her nerves had healed no more than the skin on her feet. And she supposed that had the matter had been given sufficient thought she would have cracked and returned inside, but lately the avoidance of certain subjects had become a habit as instinctual as drawing breath.

She ran a hand along the guitar's backside. Her fingernails snagged in the deep scratches caused from many years' contact with her father's belt buckle. The guitar only had five strings, and its neck was warped from humidity, but its splintered weight seemed to act as a partially functioning charm, and it helped ward away the darkness. Besides, she didn't want to be indoors when her guest arrived.

She sighed and straightened her hair.

_-You're being paranoid again-_

No, she was not being paranoid. She knew her house. She could tell when things had been moved around, and the suspicious smudges through the dust were as glaring as fresh bloodstains. It was cop's intuition, she supposed.

_-Cop's intuition? More like psychosis from sleep deprivation. You're being irrational. Why would anybody break in and not steal anything?-_

"Because I know, and they don't want me talking."

She surprised herself by speaking out loud. If she thought her house was bugged, by all rights she should have remained as quiet as possible.

_-You're talking because part of you doesn't want to believe you're bugged-_

There was no arguing with that. The notion that she was being monitored was disturbing. It was much easier to dismiss than to believe.

_-Than why not dismiss it?-_

"Because I can't. I know they're keeping an eye on me."

_-Right, and who's 'they' again?-_

She had no clue, but someone had definitely been in her house, and the same gray Crown Victoria had been parked two houses up since her incident in the woods. She got Jack Anderson to run the plates. They came back as registered to a local car rental company. There were few reasons anyone would rent a full-sized sedan from a local business and then leave it parked for five days. That Crown Vic was an observation post.

_-You're crazy. Why do you think that ER doc prescribed you Atavan?-_

Irene slapped a hand against the guitar; it made a satisfying 'thop!'

"To help me sleep."

_-The chief put you on leave for a reason-_

"Yeah, a medical reason, I can't walk."

_- And there's also that other reason-_

Irene nodded to herself. Yes, there was another reason: she was convinced that Irons wanted her out of the way.

_-And you're sure about that?-_

There was no doubt in her mind. Irons could have put her on desk duty until she healed, and he would have fired her off to Doc Matheson if he thought that she was cracking, but instead he sent her home for a month. He wanted her to keep quiet.

"Hell, he even told me such."

Irene shuddered as she recalled her interrogation.

_Irons' collar had produced an off-white doily of perspiration; his cigar smoke acted as a tangible barrier between himself and Irene_. _It was like having an interview in the middle of a grassfire. Her throat was lined with hot coals; her eyes watered._

"_I want to be as clear as possible here." He drew on the cigar; the burning end glowed like a red eye. "There are people in this town who want to keep this matter very quiet until both STARS teams can intervene, and I happen to be one of them. The Feds will not catch wind of this; these murders are a municipal matter. Are you understanding me, Officer Lundstrom?"_

Irene's heart thudded. She could smell Irons' sweat and breath, and of course that horseshit cigar.

She closed her eyes and gripped the neck where her father's calloused fingers had worn away the finish. Her heartbeat slowed; she could almost feel the dry rasp of his weathered hand in her own.

The thing she didn't know was if Irons' unwillingness to call in other law enforcement was evidence of his trademark arrogance, or of something more sinister. The office grapevine spoke of an argument between Irons and Geezer Thomas just before the deaths had been declared animal attacks.

The fading bruises on her arm were plenty proof that the murders weren't animal attacks.

Was it possible that Irons had coerced the Geezer into changing the death reports? The old coroner had been on a leave of absence ever since.

Whatever the case, Irons had ordered her silence, sent her home, and then days later, the only other survivor from the woods had his heart spontaneously explode in his chest.

_-Come on, You don't really think Irons tried to murder a catatonic man?-_

Irene shrugged. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but Houseman's doctor suspected that a drug mix-up had caused the heart attack. Irene didn't think 'drug mix-up' was much of a stretch from poisoning.

_-Yes, but the Chief of Police?-_

She straightened her hair and then caressed the guitar.

"_There are people in this town who want to keep this matter very quiet."_

Who were these people, and why was the Chief of Police acting on their behalf? Because from a public relations point of view, the Arklay deaths had been a nightmare for Irons. Half of Raccoon City was ready lynch him, and the other half were grabbing rifles and heading into the mountains to take care of matters themselves. For a week straight, the cops at the Arklay blockades have been turning away truckfulls of hunter-orange roughnecks, gunned-up and looking to do some animal control.

Whatever the case. Forest was right in his assumption that more people were going to die. John-Q had no idea what was really up there.

"_Shoot, Reen. Did you read this?" Forest tossed the newspaper to the table and poked at the article he was reading. Their plates rattled. "Irons got us sitting on our hands, while bits of people're washing up on the goddamn beach! Sorry for swearin' but why'n the Hell aren't we out there sortin' out this clusterfuck?"_

Forest raised a good question, and she wasn't prepared to sit and watch another person wander into the hands and teeth of whatever sickos were camped out in the woods.

_-Even if that means betraying everyone you work with?-_

Irene sighed; cops never snitched. The Blue Code of Silence was the unwritten golden rule of law enforcement. It might as well have been all ten cop commandments.

_-And you're a hypocrite if you break it. You know that, right?-_

Even she had hidden behind The Code. No word ever made it back to Internal Affairs as to what she was doing at the site of the Connor Deaths, and Irons didn't even reprimand her for losing her pistol.

_-And this is how you plan on repaying your debt?-_

Cops looked out for each other; they had to. Most judges and lawyers regarded them as fools or liars. The civvies either feared or hated them; the media fed off them. To be a cop was to stand alone in a world of mistrust and opposition.

And when a cop broke The Code and was branded a buddy-fucker, they were truly alone. Most resigned within a year.

_-And that's what you want to risk? You're already on thin ice-_

"I have no choice."

_-Yes you do. You keep quiet, and wait-_

She ran her hand down the guitar's neck, felt every nick and groove. Her father could rip a fencepost from the ground with his bare hands, could toss hay-bales like empty shoeboxes. She recalled the time their horse had kicked him in the head. The blow nearly scalped him; Irene had never seen anyone bleed so much. Laughing, he cursed in his father's Swedish and dropped the horse with a single punch. Erik Lindstrom had been the portrait of resilience and vitality, but Ann's death mortally wounded him.

Without a doubt, she was more her father than her mother, and she feared that if anyone else was killed in those woods due to her silence, she would respond to her culpability much in the same way her father had.

-_Purple faced, eyes bulging, the smell of hay and dust-_

"Oh, Papa," She shook her head.

She had every right to spite him with the same derisive fury her mother held. And yet she missed him so much: his crooked smile, that sandpaper voice which turned to velvet when he sang, the music he could make with the old construct of wood and steel that sat on her lap.

She plucked a string and winced at the ugly sound. The night deserved peace: something she could not grant it, or herself.

The night deserved peace. Madison Connor deserved justice.

Besides, once the story was out. There would be no reason to keep an eye on her, no more mystery cars, no more bugging.

_-No more job. You're up for contract renewal in September. Irons will be a mad-dog once you pull this stunt, and if he thinks you're the one who snitched there's no way he will rehire you.-_

She strummed the guitar; it almost sounded musical. "I don't care."

Rustling leaves and light footsteps grabbed her attention. There was motion at the back of her property: a black silhouette behind the fenceboards. The person stopped at her gate. Irene slipped the guitar off her lap and grabbed into her purse.

Just as her hand closed around the pistol-grip, the gate opened with a pig-squeal of rusty hinges. A blonde head poked through the gap. Irene let the gun slip and glanced at her watch.

_-Right on time-_

Her visitor was a Caucasian female between the ages of twenty and forty, dressed in athletic wear: a sight as common in the neighbourhood as mailboxes and tiny yapping dogs. It was for that reason she had sought her out.

Irene made quiet haste to meet her guest, who held her tongue but stared at her with the sharp inquisition of a police officer. Their common trait didn't come as much surprise to her, as reporters and cops were cut from the same cloth in many ways.

Of course, in many ways a Coyote and a German Sheppard were similar; it was all about motive.

"Irene Lindstrom?"

Irene zipped her coat and flipped her hair so it covered the sides of her face. "That's me."

_-The buddy-fucker-_

The reporter extended a hand. "I'm Aly-"

"I know who you are." Irene stared at the outstretched hand. The nails were well manicured but short, functional.

Ashcroft gave the slightest of shrugs, retracted the handshake and flicked her coyote eyes to Irene's house.

"Nice place,"

Irene mumbled a thanks, brushed past and shuddered as she regarded the park's menacing darkness. Cold hackles prickled from under layers of clothing. She gulped and cast a yearning eye to the guitar propped on her back porch.

"You rent, or own?"

Irene turned. "Huh?"

"Your house." Ashcroft pointed one of her perfect fingers to Irene's place. "Do you rent it?"

"No, I own it."

She nodded, giving the impression that Irene's real estate affairs had something to do with her story.

"You share it with anyone?"

"No." Irene narrowed her eyes. "It's just me."

"Wow." She regarded Irene with her counterfeit cop face. "How can you afford a place like that?"

"I don't." Irene pulled the gate shut, ushering Ashcroft forward. "Come on, let's take a hike."

The reporter complied, but threw Irene a dubious look. "You don't want to do the interview in your house?"

_- Interview? That's an interesting thing to call snitching-_

Irene turned. She had a few inches on Ashcroft and felt confident she could use it to her advantage. She spoke with just the slightest bit of a snarl. "Look, I'm going for a walk. You can come along and take notes, or you can get back into your Honda Civic, licence number EER 495, and go back to writing about how pretty the fireworks were last weekend."

Irene spun and began her awkward trot down the footpath. "I could always give that other guy, Bertolucci, a call."

She heard Ashcroft hurry along and smiled, both in satisfaction and relief. There was so much heat on Bertolucci she couldn't get within a block of the guy without ringing alarm bells at the PD.

"A walk is fine with me." Ashcroft kept her tone formal. "I was actually concerned about you. You're limping."

_-Oh yes, I'm sure you're very worried-_

"Well you can _stop _being concerned." Irene turned her head as she grimaced through the pain. "Just turn your little recorder on, and keep quiet."

She nodded, dutiful, a coyote waiting for its scraps. She stuck a hand in her pocket, and Irene heard the faintest of clicks. It sounded very much like the safety being taken off a gun.

"You ready?" Irene asked.

"I am, and please be sure to speak clearly. I don't want to misquote you."

Irene chuckled to herself. "Yeah, I bet not."

Before Irene could begin, Ashcroft had turned, and with lithe quickness placed a hand on Irene's forearm, directly over the bite mark.

"Oh, one more thing."

Irene stared at the hand until it was removed.

"Just for the record, I have never betrayed the identity of a source."

Irene quirked a smile. "Is that what you call me, _a source_?"

"Yes, that is what I call you." Ashcroft kept her eyes on her; they were the very same shade of blue that Ann's had been. "And I'll say it again. Just so we're clear. I can't guarantee that we'll run all…or any, of your story. But I can guarantee that we will not disclose your identity,"

Irene saw just a bit of steel behind that reporter's predatory eagerness.

"Under any condition,"

Irene nodded."Good to know,"

They began walking. The path was well lit and fairly deserted. It would be difficult for them to be followed discretely. And as much as Irene loathed to admit it, they looked like sisters taking a late-evening stroll, the most natural thing in the world.

_-This should be me and Ann-_

Irene straightened her hair, took a breath and began revealing every dirty secret the Arklay Forest held. As she spoke, she kept her eyes on the wavering darkness beyond the lighted walkway.

The night was calm, and the forecast promised pleasant weather for the rest of the week, but Irene would bet good money that there would be one hell of a storm very soon.

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 10 1998**

**Latham man declared missing in Arklay Forest**

**Ben Bertolucci**

Early reports indicate that yet another local resident has gone missing in the Arklay Forest despite authorities' assurances that the situation is under control.

Latham Resident Alan Merritt, 73, was last seen by family at his residence July 7. His abandoned vehicle was located on an isolated side road near the blockaded entrance to the Arklay Forest's "Valley Overlook" trails system.

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 11 1998**

"**Arklay Forest deaths caused by Cannibal Killers" RPD source.**

**Alyssa Ashcroft.**

Information leaked from within the Raccoon Police Department indicates that for possibly up to one month, authorities have known that the Arklay Forest deaths have been, in fact, caused by one or more individuals, and have been allegedly suppressing information from the public.

The source, who will remain anonymous, claims that investigative procedures have been ignored, evidence dismissed, and general misconduct from all…

* * *

**Page A2, Raccoon Herald, July 11 1998**

**Human remains found on Victory Lake identified.**

**Ben Bertolucci**

Authorities state that DNA testing has confirmed that the partial human remains located on Victory Lake's north shore are those of missing Hillsboro resident Laura Houseman, 29.

Raccoon Police Department officials have refused to speculate as to Houseman's cause of death, but assure…

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 12 1998**

**RPD Chief Irons declares Arklay Deaths homicides, denies cover-up claim.**

**Alyssa Ashcroft.**

In a televised news conference, Police Chief Brian Irons stated that recent evidence has led investigators to reopen the Arklay deaths case, labelling the deaths a "disturbing new type of savagery which has shaken our organization to its foundations" Irons also pledged to take "swift action to locate those responsible" but avoided any questions regarding whether the police department had prior suspicions regarding human involvement in the deaths.

* * *

**Editorial Page, Raccoon Herald, July 12 1998**

**Will Irons survive "Cannibal Killings" fiasco?**

**Allison Greaves**

Despite Brian Irons' ardent denial of any involvement in the suspected Cannibal Killings cover-up, his suspension of Head Coroner, Edwin Thomas for "gross misrepresentation of evidence" and assurances of a "comprehensive and transparent inquiry into the investigators' failures", many in the community wonder if the embattled Chief of Police will…

* * *

**Front Page, Montana Standard, July 12 1998**

**Violent end to Twin Bridges standoff leaves 5 dead.**

**Dale Townsley**

In a dramatic end to the forty-one day standoff between members of the Christ's Guardians religious militia and several law enforcement agencies, Raccoon Police Department STARS team members stormed the group's fortified compound, leaving five of the fifteen members dead and several others wounded.

Details are unclear at this time, and Madison County task force leader, Raccoon Police Department Captain Albert Wesker, was unavailable for comment, however it appears that attempts to negotiate an…

* * *

**AN- Okay, Ciel Noir. This chapter's for you. It was originally going to be a meeting between Irene and Ben Bertolucci, but I tweaked it, and I like it much better this way.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	25. Down the Road

_Though the miles lay long behind you, _  
_you have still got miles to go. _  
_How's love ever gonna find you? _  
_If it ain't here, it's down the road. **  
**_

* * *

_**July 13 1995 Potocari, Srebrenica Safe Zone**_

_Forest allowed his heartbeat to accelerate. The scope's reticule bobbed like an EKG. Five hundred yards away, the kid kept swinging his oversized head from the Serbs to the empty street behind him. His knees shook; his fingers were splayed. _

"_Don't run, kid." Diaz's voice was a rough whisper._

"_It don't matter, they'll shoot him even if he don't play along."_

"_I can't watch." Diaz turned the rangefinder to the peacekeepers' compound. His face was green even where there was no facepaint. "This, fucking county…" _

_Forest sucked air through his teeth as the kid spun and scrambled off._

_Both Serbs shouldered their rifles._

_He steadied his aim, mouthed two bangs, and then added, "As you bastards sow, so shall you reap." It was his Granddad's favourite curse, but Forest was unsure whether he had directed it to the Serbs, or himself._

_The soldiers' gunshots echoed back to their position._

**July 13 1998 Raccoon City**

Forest jerked awake with the sound of Serb rifles ringing through the night. He caught his breath and turned over before he could wake his bunkmate. Keeping his breathing even he searched the suffocating dark for familiarity, and after a moment found it hanging like a silver dollar on a black velvet screen.

Transfixed by the unnatural silver light, his hands had just the slightest tremor. He recalled how railroad tracks would shake even when a freight train was miles away.

With effort, he willed his hands steady and continued staring at the full moon. Some folks claimed to see a face in the moon. Forest hadn't been one of them until his return from Bosnia, though the face he saw was never that of a live person, but always the blue-white and black-eyed mask of death.

Srebrenica. He still couldn't pronounce the name but had no difficulty recalling the place.

_-This is your burden, for you have reaped what you have sown-_

The bed was soft and excessively warm, the room too dark for his comfort. With slow care, he peeled at the blankets and allowed his bare skin to cool in the early morning breeze. The bright moonlight gave his body a strange ghostly paleness, the colour of Bosniak corpses.

He shivered.

_-Three years to the day, and is it any easier?-_

He closed his eyes. Yes, the days were easier, most nights. July the same as ever. The rage, the feelings of impotence and frustration, they stewed with the same intensity he had felt one thousand ninety-one days earlier.

It was that sense of feebleness which drove him from that apartment filled with dusty reminders of unfulfilled expectations and into Officer Lindstrom's farmhand's arms. Her vitality and soft warmth was assurance that he was still a man, injured but strong, powerful.

But now, hours later, she was an uncomfortable source of heat occupying an overly soft bed, and Forest was once again the nonprotector who lay prostrate before the moon's empty face.

The sheets rustled, and the bed shifted. Forest turned and saw twin full moons reflected in Irene's widespaced eyes.

"I wake you?" he asked.

"Not really." Her hair fell in front of one eye.

"Can't sleep?"

She shook her head.

"Poor Reen." Forest brushed the stray hair into place and ran a hand though her thick mane. She murmured an inarticulate appreciation and closed her eyes. Her Scandinavian skin was the colour of winter frost in the moonlight, flawless except for the crease on one cheek.

He traced a finger along the scar.

"Don't." She swatted his hand away.

"Why not?"

She frowned. "It's ugly,"

"No it ain't." His hand settled on the generous swell of her hip. "It's interesting."

"I don't _want _to be interesting."

"A soldier'd be proud of a mark like that."

"Yeah, and I'm not a soldier." He could feel her tensing. "I hate it."

"Well, I like it." He ran his knuckles along the skin of her thigh. Her muscles relaxed.

He leaned forward. The scar was old, stretched wide and puckered. She must have been young when it happened. "How'd you get it?"

Irene turned to wood. Both eyes popped open and narrowed at him.

"Car accident." The words came out clipped and close together. She sat up and scowled, lips drawn to a thin black line. "Hey, why do you sleep with the lights on? Why don't you drink coffee?"

Her slivered eyes flashed moonlight. "Why'd you leave the Army and move to Raccoon City?"

He didn't answer.

"Well?" She crossed her arms over her chest; it rose and fell with every breath. Her cheeks were reddening, fire under frost. "You feel like talking? 'Cause, _boy _am I ever curious."

Forest blinked, startled. They had gone from sleeping to arguing in less than five minutes. Riled her up plenty. Had their positions been reversed, he would have been riled too.

"Allright, I follow. Ain't none of my business. I'm sorry."

"No, it _isn't_ your fucking business." She scowled at him for a good minute. The full moons in her eyes shimmered like the night surface of a calm lake, but at last her breathing slowed. She sighed and touched the scar, regarded her fingertips as if they might have come back bloody.

"Sorry. It's not something I like to talk about, is all."

"And that's fine." He paused. "I just don't wanna see you…"

"See me _what_?"

What exactly did he want to say? That he had seen the bottle of Atavan on her washstand? Army shrinks gave shellshocked vets that stuff.

"I just…you've been different lately, been troubled about something. I don't like seeing you acting like…"

"Like?" Her mouth was still pressed into that hard line.

He glanced at his hands. They weren't shaking, but he could feel the slightest vibration under the skin. "Like me."

Irene chucked. "What's wrong with how you act?"

"Shoot, Reen. You know what's wrong with me. I don't sleep worth a damn, can't drink coffee, ain't fond of the dark. That ain't normal. I know it, and it tears me up to think you might be headin' down the same road as me."

_-You soft sonavabitch. Crying your guts out like some snot-nosed kid with skinned knees-_

He rolled over and stared at the dead moon.

"Aw, don't mind me. I ain't thinking straight right now."

The sheets rustled behind him. Irene's belly pressed against the small of his back: heat, tender skin. She shifted onto one elbow. Her hair pooled under his jaw.

"Is it something you feel like talking about?"

"I don't think talking is gonna change anything that's happened."

Her hair stirred his goosebumps as she nodded.

He closed his eyes, was greeted with the wild terror of that Bosniak kid. Eyes back open, the moon leered at him, dead eyes grouted with mud, white skin.

_-Fuck, enough- _

A tremor raced through his body; his hands shook.

_-You shall reap what you have sown-_

He grunted and rolled over. Irene was still staring at him, but those widespaced eyes held neither compassion nor accusation. They had an inquisitive calm and nothing else.

What would he gain by telling her his troubles? She had her own hurt, and any man was expected to carry his own load, no matter the burden.

_-But she doesn't want to carry it for you. She just wants to know how heavy it is-_

For three years, he kept Srebrenica to himself. The only witness to his complicity in the mass murder died in a training accident just over a year later. He would gain nothing but contempt if he told Officer Lindstrom his story.

Thing was, Officer Lindstrom didn't seem like the contemptuous type.

_-Might do good to talk. She's likely seen her share of hardship. She'll understand. You're already a disgrace to the menfolk in your family. What's one more step?-_

He closed his eyes. "Allright, fine."

"Hmm?" She craned her neck.

"You asked if I wanted to talk. I'll talk."

"Only if you want to."

"Well, keepin' quiet hadn't done me much good."

"Okay,"

He drummed his fingers on the mattress. It was peculiar that though he had relived the thirteenth of July, nineteen ninety-five time and time again, it was next to impossible to put into words.

"You ever hear of the Srebrenica Massacre?"

Her eyes muddied with confusion for a moment before returning to their sharp interest. "It sounds familiar. Refresh my memory."

"It was during the Yugoslav civil war. Srebrenica was a safe zone in Bosnia set up for refugees. Farmers, kids and widows mostly, all of them hungry and sick. It was guarded by Dutch peacekeepers. The Serbs kept saying that the Bosnian Army was using it as a base to launch raids. They were getting right irritable until NATO took to chasin' them off with fighter bombers. Us Special Forces were the ones guiding the bombs home. Me and another guy were liaisoned to the Dutch peacekeepers."

Irene sat up, crossed her legs and drew the comforter across her chest. She gestured for him to continue.

"Except one day, the VRS…sorry, the Serb Army, comes knocking on the door. They rolled right on in, chased the peacekeepers back into their compound. By nightfall the town was full of Serbs. No UN anywhere."

* * *

_With a rustling lighter than the wind itself, Sergeant Diaz snuck up to his hide. _

"_Anything good?" White teeth flashed behind Diaz's improvised ghillie suit. He looked like a bush come alive. Diaz was a bush with teeth; Forest was a bush with a rifle. _

"_Negative," Forest mouthed a 'bang' as his target rounded a corner. "They're mindin' their business."_

"_Yeah, murder," Diaz picked up their GVS-5 rangefinder and began scanning the ruined town. _

_Forest grunted an agreement, and then found a target at three hundred yards: a paramilitary with dayglo-pink sunglasses and a Yugoslav AK slung over his shoulder. "What's word from the big eye?" He asked._

"_NATO's grounded all air support out of Aviano. Serbs said they'd grease those flyboy hostages if we brought anymore fire." Diaz switched the rangefinder to the Dutch HQ. "These poor cocksuckers are on their own."_

* * *

"We were ordered to stand down. Just watched on as the people we were supposed to defend were sorted out, women on one side, men on another, and shipped off."

He took a breath.

"Most of the women were sent north. All the males…boys, cripples, didn't matter, they were all trucked into Serbia and killed. Big graves, hundreds of bodies…"

He stared at his hands, could see veins and tendons standing out like rows of corn.

"Some they killed on the spot."

* * *

_The kid was all eyes. His big head kept pivoting from the soldiers to the street. The Serbs elbowed each other and chuckled like pair of locker-room idiots. They gestured at the kid with their guns._

"_They want him to run." Diaz said. "No doubt they'll call him an enemy combatant. This is so fucked." _

_The reticule stopped its hopscotch and settled between the taller VRS' shoulder blades. Forest spat a brown stream of tobacco and curled his finger around the trigger. _

"_Two stationary targets, five yards apart, moderate range, windspeed negligible, fish in a barrel. I'm making a shot. Stand by." _

_Diaz didn't respond, but Forest could hear him shake his head. The ferns tucked into Diaz's helmet whispered his inevitable reply. And in that moment he hated First Sergeant Diaz with a fierceness he had never felt before._

"_Negative. You know we're bound by the UNPROFOR rules of engagement. We can't do shit unless-"_

"_Motherfuck, I know." Forest held the gun too tightly; the crosshairs bobbed. "What goddamn good are we doin' here if we allow this shit to happen?"_

"_No choice."_

* * *

"And we just stood there and watched. Eight thousand people dead, and I didn't fire a single round."

He recalled a conversation with his Granddad about the war, about how Granddad's unit passed through a liberated Nazi concentration camp.

"_Not a single one of them Krauts tried to put a stop to it. And I'll tell you this, Will. Any man who could turn a blind eye to such wickedness is just as guilty as the bastard who did the killing."_

"Now I understand evil just like anyone else: the kind of bad that'll make a fella steal, the kind like Clive Havel had in him. This was different. This was regular folk actin' evil all as one, settin' their good aside and behavin' like a pack of dogs. I seen a soldier with a cross round his neck bayonet a pregnant girl. I seen..." He shook his head. "After seeing _that_ sort of evil, it changes a man's look on the world."

A full minute of silence passed before Irene dipped her head into a slow nod.

"So no more Army after that?" No indictment in the voice, understanding.

"Naw, didn't care much for the uniform since."

"Looking back, would you have done anything different?"

"T'ain't a day goes by that I don't ask myself that."

She straightened her hair. "Well, I can think of one good thing that came from it."

He arched his eyebrows. "Yeah, what's that?"

"It brought you here." She smiled. Her fingers whisked along the stubble on his cheek.

Forest returned her smile. "Shucks,"

"I'm serious. And besides, you're protecting people now. You tracked down that Havel guy. There's a good chance you'll be given the Arklay deaths file."

He glanced at her. "It's already our case."

Irene's eyes went wide. She leaned forward. "Huh?"

"You didn't hear yet?"

"No, what happened?"

"Irons is holding a press conference tomorrow letting everyone know that STARS are on the case. I guess all that pressure finally cracked him."

"Wow, that's great!" Her smile dropped. "Is Irons pissed?"

Forest chuckled. "Hoo! You ought to see him. Red face, walkin' all stiff like someone just fired a combat boot up his crapper." He cast a keen eye as he delivered the next sentence. "Whoever leaked that info to the press best say a few prayers, cause if Irons finds out who it was, they're gonna be in a _world _of trouble."

Forest felt his insides tug at her reaction. Irene's panicked dismay was so plainly written that there was no doubting her guilt.

The rumours were true. Officer Lindstrom was the leak.

_-Aw, Hell, Reen. Why?-_

Forest ran a hand through his hair and broke contact with her frightened eyes. He kept his heartbeat steady, controlled his breathing, an old sniper trick, and inched away from her. Some part of him wanted away, as if any minute an angry and vengeful God Of Police might strike her down. He wondered if she knew just how much trouble she had gotten herself into.

Why? The question still ate at him.

_-She's been acting queer all month. Since those deaths started. Likely she feels responsible, sort of how you feel responsible for that Bosnian kid. Looking back you'd have pulled the trigger, Diaz be damned. Seems like Reen had the courage you didn't- _

He would keep his mouth shut. If she knew that Internal Affairs was already gunning for her, it would only spook her into acting stranger. Besides, it sounded as if Irons was about to be rode out on a rail. If Irene laid low long enough, the heat may pass her over in favour of the bigger fish: Irons, the murders and the cover-up.

_-Murders-_

A big part of him still couldn't believe it was happening, had been happening for nearly a month. Sullivan had been right, cannibals in the Arklay Forest.

_-She leaked that info to give STARS the case. Solve it fast. Get Irons' attention on the murders, and his job. She'll be fine-_

"Forest?"

Eyes back on her. "Yeah?"

"When do you guys start on the case?"

"Most of us are out tomorrow morning looking for that missing old guy." He glanced at Irene's alarm clock. No doubt Marini was already at the station going over Silverman's notes. "We've already got most files. Coroner's office is gonna give us their autopsy reports and evidence tomorrow morning. Marini's been chompin' at the bit pretty hard. He knew one of the victims, the Connor father."

She straightened her hair. "Is he glad?"

"Who?"

"Marini,"

"That man ain't never been happy a day in his life, but he's pleased to have the job, finally."

She smiled, tired but damn pretty in the white light.

His Army career turned sour, the title of defender corrupted by the hesitation and indecision of weaker men. Irene had given him a chance to pick up, to defend, to avenge.

He reached over, ran a hand along her shoulder. She had another scar just above the collarbone.

"Thanks, Reen."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

_-Don't play coy. You know very well what for-_

"Nothing, just thanks."

"Okay,"

For a time, they lay together, quiet and naked under the full moon's dead eyes. Each with their sins, each with their struggles. Each fearful but resolute: survivors.

_-Together- _

"Hey, Reen?"

"Yeah?"

"You gonna go back to sleep?"

"No, probably not."

"Wanna grab some chow?"

After a pause. "You buying?"

* * *

**Front page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998**

**Raccoon City resident killed in single vehicle accident.**

**George Shultz**

Late yesterday evening, authorities responded to a single vehicle accident near the Raccoon City Police Department Central Precinct.

The driver, Elaine Hutchens, 38, was pronounced dead at the scene. Witnesses claim that Hutchens' vehicle, an RPD coroner's van, was speeding and out of control before striking a fuel pump and bursting into flames.

An investigation will take place in order to

* * *

**Front page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998**

**Cannibal Killings evidence destroyed**

**Alyssa Ashcroft**

The sensational 'Cannibal Killings' case suffered a serious setback yesterday when a van transporting physical evidence, as well as the master copies of Head Coroner Edwin Thomas' notes, were destroyed in a vehicle accident which claimed the life of a Coroner's Office employee.

* * *

**Editorial Page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998**

**RPD subpoena of Ashcroft a flagrant violation of the First Amendment.**

**Allison Greaves**

In a move of inexplicable arrogance and disregard for Freedom of the Press. The Raccoon Police Department's Internal Affairs Office has decided to continue with its legal pressuring of Raccoon Herald staff reporter Alyssa Ashcroft to provide the RPD with the identity of the "Cannibal Killings' informer.

It is this paper's position as a source of impartial truth to decry any criminalisation of the release of information. The RPD's legal action against Ashcroft sets a dangerous precedent

* * *

**AN. Thanks to Maiafay for guiding me in the right direction with this chapter. It was a serious pain to write. And sorry for the long delay between updates. You can expect one chapter a month until this if finished.**

**And just a quick historical note. The Srebrenica Massacre actually happened, and most information in this chapter is accurate. Although it was actually SAS and not Green Berets aiming the NATO bombs home. Artistic licence FTW!**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	26. My Wild Child

**July 14 1998 Raccoon City.**

Irene gave Irons' words time to sink in. Her chest burned as if she had taken a line-drive to the sternum, and the best she could manage were quarter-breaths. White pinpoints swam through her field of vision.

At last she managed a deep breath, could smell the interrogation room's familiar redolence of ashtray and sweat. Across the expanse of steel table Irons and Findlay scrutinised her. They looked like a pair of barn cats swishing their tails at a cornered rat.

"Parking Enforcement?" It was a surprise that her voice held steady. It was a note lower perhaps, as if she had cursed within the walls of a church, but calm nonetheless.

"Municipal Code Enforcement, actually." Irons pushed a clipboard across the table. Those alcoholic eyes were fixed steady on her, gauging her reaction.

She grabbed the forms with gentle care. Her heart thumped. Her back was warm with sweat.

"You're making me a meter-maid?" Irene's side of the clipboard showed thumbnails gone white with strain, but a quick check of the one-way mirror ensured that her calm façade remained intact.

"Don't be ridiculous." Irons rolled a pen over to her. "We wouldn't take your badge without a good reason."

Findlay nodded at Irons, but his disarming brown eyes, sheep's camouflage, stayed on her.

"It's not a bad post. Desk work, straight days, no overtime." Irons said.

She grit her teeth. The grinding reverberated through her skull. Straight days, goodbye night-shift and overtime premiums; hello mortgage foreclosure.

"Am I being punished?" That low voice, her mother's voice. She felt her mouth tighten into a hard line.

Irons' teeth flashed from behind his moustache. His yellow eyes and cowlick only reinforced the image of an old, one-eared tomcat, fat and slow perhaps, but still with the love for a fresh kill. "What makes you think you're being punished, Lundstrom?"

"Why are we doing my assessment in the interrogation room?" She tilted the clipboard toward Findlay. "Why is Internal Affairs sitting in on a contract renewal?"

Findlay smiled. He was handsome in a forties actor sort of way, an ex-Umbrella HR guy hired by Irons to enforce protocols. Internal Affairs was a position traditionally held by a fellow officer. To have a civvie bring the hammer down was sacrilege. And now said blasphemy sat across from her, lean and playful, claws out.

"We've recently changed the assessment process." Still he smiled, strong jaw, sharp teeth. "Miller is indisposed, and I'm his stand-in, so here I am."

"Miller hasn't missed a day's work in five years," she said.

"I suppose it's a day of firsts then." Irons leaned forward. He had't brushed his teeth. Irene could smell bourbon on his breath. "Sign the form, please."

"I asked for a post to general patrol, Ward One. My other reviews were all good. Why am I being taken off the road? This…" She waved down to the transfer papers, controlled her breathing. "This is work for some old guy on disability."

"You _are _on disability, Lindstrom." Again Findlay with that eager grin, no doubt he was relishing the moment when she lost her cool and admitted to leaking the Arklay files.

They would lock her up, just as they had done with Ashcroft.

Another deep breath; she wiped the sweat from her forehead. "I'm on temporary disability. My feet are getting better every day. I don't think that it's necessary to-"

"_This_, is the only position available, Officer." Irons leaned back and crossed his arms.

A moment of silence passed as each player contemplated their next move. The quiet was disturbed as Findlay rested his elbows on the table. Soft fabric whispered across the stainless-steel surface, a snake's hiss.

"Of course, there is another option." Findlay's elegant fingers were steepled as if in contemplation.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You can always choose not to renew your contract."

Irons gave a single nod.

Irene flicked her eyes from Irons to Findlay, and then settled on the door. The cats were giving the rat opportunity to escape.

"Do I have time to think about this?" she asked.

"I have a press conference in half an hour." Irons said. "Make up your mind, and stop wasting my time."

Findlay raised an eyebrow. His long, ladylike hands opened a thin black portfolio, and a tortoise shell pen popped between his fingers as if by a magic trick.

"If you don't mind, Chief, while I have Lindstrom here, I was wondering if she might answer a few quick questions I had about her incident on the fourth."

His eyes sparkled with good cheer. He twirled the pen, turned to a fresh page and threw her a friendly wink.

"While we talk, you can use the time to decide whether you want that assignment to code enforcement or not."

* * *

Irene hurried down the basement steps and ran both hands though her sweatslick hair. Every nerve felt shocked. Her cheeks burned like hot coals. She could still smell the interrogation room, Findlay's cologne. She balled her hands into tight fists; it was the only thing that kept them from shaking.

_-Parking Enforcement. Five hundred bucks a month less-_

"Shit!" She swung an elbow into the morgue door. Something on the other side tumbled and shattered.

Irene walked as fast as her bandaged feet would allow, managing a slow jog through the oily dungeon that the RPD called a parking garage. A deep breath replaced sweat and aftershave with gasoline and engine oil. It wasn't enough. She needed fresh air, the smell of fertilizer and tilled earth. She would get into her truck, drive as far as possible, and direct her rage toward the Arklay Forest's impartial hills. They were not Wyoming's rocky bluffs, but they would do.

The two mechanics popped their heads out from under a squad car's hood and watched her cross, their eyes dull with bovine indifference. The old one with the hairy ears was checking out her ass, she just knew it.

Her calves burned as she jogged up the garage's entrance ramp. The bandages strained. Pain shot up her legs. She swore, curled her toes, and resigned herself to a slow limp.

"God damn this place…those assholes."

"Watch your language, Lindstrom."

Irene spun toward the familiar voice, frowned at the cigarette that dangled between Officer Gutierrez's lips.

"When did you start smoking again?" She walked over to him.

"About half an hour ago." He glared at her from under his forage cap. His eyes were like two piss-holes, and as red as Irons'. "What are you doing here?"

"Irons and Findlay just gave me my review." Irene caught the hitch in her voice and transformed it into an angry snarl. She would allow herself to feel anger, but refused to tolerate self-pity. From the moment she called Alyssa Ashcroft she knew that her actions would have implications.

"They're parking me behind a desk, code enforcement. I'm the lucky cop who gets to impound cars with overdue tickets." She laughed. "Great huh?"

Joe took a long drag and spat between his boots. "They got you too, then."

"What?" It felt as if someone one had dumped a bucket of water on her, the fire of her righteous fury extinguished in a single sentence. She took a step forward, hushed her voice. "What do you mean _me too? _What happened?"

Joe pulled his cap off and ran a hand along his shiny scalp. "They're not giving me my Sergeant's stripes."

His lips peeled back, revealing every coffee-stained tooth he had. He pitched the cigarette and sneered back toward the precinct.

"Goddammit, Juan stats college in September. He busted his ass all year, and now…so long, pay raise."

Joe's powerful overhead throw sent his forage cap careening off the precinct's limestone bricks. It landed upright a few yards away, visor bent. The cap-brass twinkled at their feet like fool's gold.

"Fucks sake!" He snatched the insignia off the ground, threw it like a skipping stone. It pinged off unit fifty-nine's white paint, caught the sun as it sailed over the light bar.

"Thirty years of my life. Still a _fucking _patrolman!"

Irene took a step away from Joe, reminded of the time her brother had caught a badger in a foothold trap. It was impossible for twelve year-old Irene to believe so much aggression occupied such a small creature.

Joe Gutierrez, the injured badger raging against the injustice of his predicament.

And it was her fault, every bit of it.

She glanced at him. Guilt had already began to pump icewater through her veins. "I…I can't believe they think you're the leak."

Joe's eyes sharpened to sewing needles. She could feel him searching her face, reading her words. Twenty-eight years of investigative experience bore down on her, and in an instant he went from being the badger, creature of indiscriminate outrage and violence, to the snarling dog challenging a rival.

"It was you, wasn't it, Irene?" His voice had the grim pronouncement of a judge handing down a sentence.

Irene opened her mouth, but found that words had failed her. There was no point in denying it. She couldn't lie to Joe, never could.

Instead, she found her own anger. Icewater became ammonia.

"What did you _want _me to do, Joe?" Every bit of frustration welled forth. Her voice echoed off the walled compound. "You said yourself that Irons and Silverman were stalling on this case. We're supposed to PROTECT people. I did what needed to be done."

"What _needed _to be done?" Joe's eyes bulged. Spittle flew off his lips. "You don't know this town."

"I know that more people would-"

"You don't know shit! You remember Sam Connor?" Joe gave her no chance to answer. "He's head of the Arklay Game and Fish Branch. Him and his pals know those woods better than anyone else, and now they're all gunned-up and looking for some country justice. Irons was holding the lid on this thing to keep people calm and safe, but now YOU fucked it all up. Those idiots are gonna get torn to shreds out there."

He took a quick breath, jabbed a finger at her. "And YOU cost me my stripes. Thanks a lot, buddy-fucker."

"Joe-"

"Get away from me." He gave her a shove, strong despite his age and size, and stomped back into the garage. Joe the badger, a bandy-legged terror hunting for someone else to chew on. Even with the dim overhead lights she could see thick cords bulging from his forearms and neck, could see his hands balled into tight little fists.

"I did what I had to, Joe," she shouted down to him.

A muffled, "Fuck you," drifted back to her.

Joe disappeared into the garage's greasy darkness. The two mechanics dropped their heads once they realised the show was over. The old one chuckled and lit a cigarette.

Irene turned back to her truck, trembling. Thunder grumbled on the other side of the mountains, an odd death knell to her career as a beat cop. Halfway across the lot, a day-shift cruiser swung-in and parked. The car rocked as Marv Branagh and Moose Hildebrand pulled their prisoner from the back seat. The ride had flattened her hair and wrinkled her doubtlessly expensive suit, but Ashcroft's chin was high, and she walked with the self-assured stride of a woman in command.

Hildebrand clamped one of his huge hands around her arm and guided her toward the garage. She ignored the intusion, kept that pert nose pointed to the sky. The heavy steel handcuffs were an interesting choice of accessories considering her posh wardrobe.

They neared, and Branagh sent a genial smile in her direction. "Hey, Lindy. When you back at work?"

"Not for a while, Marv."

"Shame, you're missing all the fun."

"I've had enough fun."

Irene passed the group, and Ashcroft sent a nod her way, just the slightest tilt of the head. But in that fraction of a second's worth of interaction, Irene saw her own sentiments reflected in the reporter's familiar blue eyes.

I'm not sorry.

**AN. I think Chief Irons is my favourite RE villain. I love writing that guy!**

**Stay tuned!**

**-C**


	27. One of These Days

**July 14, 1998 Raccoon City**

Lawrence had never considered himself a violent man. Even during those Bull Moose years when his hands were thick with calluses, and he drank his suppers at the Millhaven Lounge, he never fought. He was a man of strong words and implied unpleasantness, of subtle coercion. It had been his innate diplomacy that elevated him from his lowly station on the process line to Umbrella's management.

And so he was genuinely shocked by his office's state of devastation, perhaps even moreso than the dough-faced kid from Continental Freight who had stopped to gawk. The boy didn't linger, but he got an eyefull, doughy but sensible. There was no doubt the young lad saw the television laying facedown like a murder victim, the smoke whiffing out the shattered screen, perhaps the TV's departing soul. From the hallway the boy would have seen the buckshot of fist-shaped holes in the drywall, a crater where the puncher had hit a wall stud and cracked a knuckle.

Lawrence turned to the window. Reflected was a ghostly Mr. Hyde take on White Umbrella's Raccoon City Program Coordinator: a bestubbled lunatic with electrified hair and a primate's aggressive stance.

He took his eyes from the pale madman and glanced at the television. The floor underneath flickered with noisy blue sparks, and ozone wafted pungent under his nose. He looked away, watched his Mr. Hyde doppelganger lurch to the wall and kick the television cord from the receptacle. Half the socket cover snapped and tumbled along the baseboard, collateral damage. With life-support removed, the television stopped its death rattle. Mr. Hyde lost interest in it and sulked across the room.

Porcelain shards crunched under his hushpuppies. The cup had been a fiftieth birthday gift from Julie; it had always seemed to keep coffee hotter than the ones in the office. He wasn't allowed to drink coffee anymore; he would miss it anyway. With a sigh he fell into his chair and shut his eyes to the Tasmanian Devilesque state of his office.

A few moments of illegitimate silence passed. He drummed his fingers on the desk, grimaced and picked a glass shard from between his index and middle finger. The pain was welcome. It was tangible, controllable. A quick wash with soap and water and the application of an antiseptic bandage with Umbrella's patented hemostatic gel and he would be good as new.

Umbrella should have stuck to making bandages and pills.

He took a breath. The ozone hung heavy at the lower altitude. The smell always reminded him of blood, of bleating alarm buzzers and panicked shouting, OSHA inspectors with hardhats and court subpoenas. The olfactory memory triggered the pain in his hands, fired the furnace in his belly. He recalled the last image his television offered before it met its unceremonious end: Police Chief Brian Irons in his starched uniform, his Crisco sheen glistening under the media spotlight.

Irons, that sweaty Quisling, his pockets crammed with Umbrella money, proudly declaring that STARS Bravo was investigating the cannibal killings case.

Lawrence tittered: an ugly squeaking sound that belonged in a room with padded walls. He hadn't thought it possible for matters to get much worse. Catatonic Jeremy Houseman's disposal had been bungled, bad luck that a cardiac surgeon happened to pass his ward the moment his heart stopped. Fear of backlash had spooked Lawrence into waiting to take care of the cop witness, but the day before she was to be killed, the story went public, and Lawrence Jenkins became a dead man.

_-Not dead yet. Just do your job, persistence pays off-_

He shrugged to himself. There wasn't much choice now anyway. If he ran, Umbrella would find him. If he killed himself, Umbrella would turn their sights to his family. Death was no escape when dealing with a creature like Albert Wesker.

A brief search located his telephone, and the push of one button had it autodialing a familiar number. Three rings, not unlike the warbling cry of Umbrella Chemicals' emergency buzzer, and a singsong voice answered.

"I would like speak to Chief Irons please."

Miss Singsong told him that Irons was not in his office.

"Do you know when he will be back in?"

She did not, but wished to know if he would like to leave a message. Lawrence could hear up-tempo music playing behind her, and he swallowed a mouthful of salty bile. He was anything but up-tempo today.

"Yes, please tell him to call Mister Jenkins on his cell phone as soon as possible."

Irons' receptionist cheerfully obliged, took his number, and wished him a nice day. He could hear her smiling as she spoke. He stifled the urge to scream an obscenity in her ear and instead settled the receiver into its cradle, an incongruous gesture given the room's devastation. He pushed the phone off the table, listened for the platicky tumble. The old rotary phones were better; they would give a little ring when they fell, as if they had been startled. The touchtones were much less satisfying.

He groaned and attempted to rest his head in his hands. His damaged knuckle ground in its joint. The sigh became a gasp, and then the obscenity he had withheld from Irons' secretary. He sat upright and regarded the offending hand. Blood wormed through the crevasses between his knuckles, leaked down his pinkie and pattered to his desk blotter.

_-Look at that swelling, definitely broke it-_

He rifled through his drawers in search of stopgap first-aid. The wad of Kleenexes slowed the bleeding. The double-shot of Pepto-Bismol and palmfull of Zantac got him to his feet. Annette Birkin needed to be informed of Irons' treachery, and he was in need of a splint and a box of bandages.

Besides, there was little he could do until he spoke with Irons, and the sight of his ruined office, the smell of electric catastrophe, would rob him of what little nerve he retained.

Making sure to turn off the lights and close the door, he exited his office and shuffled down the hallway like a deviant beating a hasty retreat from some act of carnal savagery. The few people he crossed paths with gave him a wide berth. They also had the good sense to direct their eyes to the fishbelly-brown linoleum. Humans were more animal than they preferred to admit, and on some visceral level it was evident that Lawrence Jenkins was a man with blood on his hands. His particular case involved the literal as well as the figurative.

Or had they simply noticed the bullseye on his back?

The elevator doors whispered open to an unimpressively dingy interior: imitation wood panelling, a castoff Wrigley's Spearmint wrapper, scuffed aluminum trim. Lawrence stepped in and waited for the doors to close before fumbling at the concealed thumbprint scanner. It seemed absurd that he was keeping up with such petty gestures of secrecy when the whole of Umbrella's terrifying true identity was within hours of being revealed, but then again, ludicrous was one step above despair. He pressed his thumb into the scanner. The elevator chimed a cheerful electric equivalent to Irons' receptionist and began whirring downward with a satisfied hum. He called it a motherfucker.

He rested his head on the far wall and took a deep breath. Above him, the elevator's hermetic air exchanger spooled up with a muffled screech. His lapels fluttered under the blast of air, and in a moment, the upper office's smell of hot metal and acidic smoke was gone, replaced with a desiccated, medical odour that he found harder to breathe then anhydrous ammonia.

Down he went, into Annette Birkin's vacuum-packed anthill. Two-hundred feet below his esoteric shipping office the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors pinged open, revealing a Kafkaesque maze of stainless-steel corridors, Plexiglas and multicoloured conduits. The sterile, ultramodern labyrinth was certainly at odds with the lacklustre building to which it was married. No telephones rang here. There was no grumbling traffic, no shift-whistles from the chemical plant. In its place were the rhythmic pulse of machinery and the muttering of rubber soles on mirrored steel. He continued along his path, past a security office which automatically scanned and verified his identification tag. The guards regarded him from the safety of their ballistic glass and chemically enhanced muscles; neither man smiled.

He had three-quarters of the hallway to himself. It was no surprise that the white-clad research staff kept distance from their hollow-eyed visitor, and he was relieved to escape their blatant inattention and disappear into the complex's Facility Director Office.

Annette Birkin and her husband were huddled together, staring at the tiny television with matching looks of dismay on their unwell faces. Neither Birkin acknowledged him as he sidestepped the desk and slid behind them, and in a second, Lawrence knew that he had no need to inform Annette Birkin that their house of cards was ready to tumble. The news station they had tuned to was replaying Irons' press conference, and once again Lawrence felt the alien fury swelling inside. He clenched his hands; two fingers on the right were swollen in place.

"I guess I don't need to tell you that we've had a bit of a setback."

The Birkins turned to him. Their matching translucent skin and sulphur coloured hair made them seem more like siblings than spouses, living replicas of H.G. Wells' Eloi.

But that was wrong, the Eloi were supposed to live aboveground. It was the Morlocks who lived in subterranean tunnels.

"I thought that you had a leash on Irons." Bill Birkin sneered and pointed one of his scarecrow fingers at him. "I spent a week doing a dog and pony show for that simpleton Duvall. Meanwhile, all _you_ had to do was keep the press off the case, and that was still too difficult?"

"William," Annette placed a hand on her husband's forearm. "Let him talk."

"What happened?" Birkin pulled his arm away, spun and flapped a hand toward the television. "What's this about? Why are the RPD investigating the Annex spill already?"

Lawrence shrugged. He was used to Bill Birkin's outbursts. It was another welcome nuisance.

"I wish I could say, Bill. This is the first I heard of it."

Birkin wheeled back toward him. His tie flopped over his shoulder like a mustard-stained animal hide.

"The first you heard of it? What where you doing up there while we played damage control? They're going to shut down my research because of you!"

Annette stepped in front of her child husband and set her hands on her hips.

"Enough, William. Irons gave you no indication that he was going to-"

"Betray us," Birkin finished.

Lawrence shook his head. "He was playing ball with me last time we spoke. He had no problem looking away while we…" The words died in his throat. Though he had the capacity to kill, he could not say the word. Admittance meant guilt."While we took care of the coroner's evidence."

"Have you called him?" Annette asked.

"I did. He's out of the office. I told his secretary to call me as soon as he gets the message."

"That overfed buffoon," Birkin grumbled from behind his wife.

"I'll give him half-an-hour before I update Wesker."

Lawrence's phone chimed an incoming call the moment Wesker's name had left his lips, as if uttering the Security Director's surname was some sort of dark incantation. He grabbed it like a panicked beachgoer might tear at an engorged leech.

"Jenkins here,"

"You called?"

Lawrence let a breath hiss from between his teeth. His forearms twitched with residual violent adrenaline, but he focused his rage inward, pointed it toward the expanding vortex in his stomach lining.

"I just watched your press conference." Remarkable, he managed to even sound friendly.

"Then we have nothing to talk about."

"He have plenty to talk about, Brian." The friendly tone vanished.

"I don't believe we do."

Lawrence clenched his jaw. "Be reasonable. All we need is one more day, and the situation will be taken care of."

"You've fed me that line once too many, Jenkins. You have run out of time. The story is out, and if I don't act now the Arklay Forest will be crawling with townspeople looking for justice themselves."

"Yes, but… _one _more day. Wesker gets back tomorrow morning."

"Then Wesker will be one day late."

Lawrence closed his eyes, let a deep breath fill the bottom of his lungs. It was a yoga technique Julie had taught him. It never worked.

"We had an agreement, Brian. You can't back away from this now."

"Is that so?" Lawrence could hear the dark humour in Irons' voice, nearly taunting. "And you think the pittance Umbrella sends my way gives you unequivocal control over my police department? My agreement with Wesker was to overlook some of his activities, nothing more. This has gone too far, and if you think for one second that I'm willing to be burned at the stake for the benefit of your company's reputation, you are sorely mistaken."

"What's he saying?" Bill Birkin deked around his wife and was craning his head toward their conversation.

Lawrence stuck a finger into his open ear and turned his back to the virologist. His interim bandage peeled off and fluttered from one knuckle like a bloody surrender.

"If it's more money you need-"

"There isn't enough money in the world to keep me from changing my mind. I looked away while you killed that cunt Hutchens, but that is all the service I'm willing to provide."

Lawrence switched tactics. The Kleenex unfastened itself and glided to the floor.

"You are aware that we'll ruin you? Can you even imagine what accusations of bribery and complicity in murder…"

_-There, I said it. I said murder-_

"…will do to your career? Even if you can avoid criminal charges, you-"

Irons' chuckle, low and throaty and unafraid, stopped Lawrence short. The Chief's words were superfluous; that laugh was all reply he needed.

"I believe that Umbrella will be far too occupied with their own legal concerns to worry about incriminating a man in my position. Good day, Mister Jenkins, and best of luck."

The steady drone of a dead line cut in before Lawrence had chance to reply. Why did dialtone and flatlined heart monitors sound so similar? He flipped his phone shut, retracted the antenna, and turned toward the Birkins. He wanted to laugh, or maybe ransack this office as well.

"Did he just hang up on us?" Bill Birkin had the look of a man who was teetering by one leg, had discovered the hard way that the world truly was flat.

"Yes, he did." Lawrence laughed his nervous titter and wiped his nose. Blood smeared across his upper lip; he could smell ozone from his destroyed television. "We're on our own."

"Are you kidding me? After all that money we gave him!" Birkin was darting his eyes from Lawrence to his sallow wife. "All that money taken from _my_ budget!"

He loped forward with a single wide step, brought one hand high and swiped it sideways with a magician's flourish. With a blur of white labcoat, Annette Birkin's orderly desktop was whisked away. Pens clattered against the wall; papers scattered and swept floorward in graceful arcs. A Dixie cup filled with coffee left a wet brown streak on Annette's daily planner.

"William!" Annette gaped.

Birkin spun toward them. Both eyes leaked tears, a snot bubble pulsed from his left nostril. "Don't you dare _William _me! I could have been testing G on live tissues by now. And that dunce…" He punctuated 'dunce' by kicking his wife's office chair toward the pile of stationary. It teetered like an erratic gyroscope and tumbled to its side. The casters wobbled in pendulous half circles. "Sarton has a lab breach and ruins everything."

His bottom lip trembled, an overgrown kid who realised that he wasn't going to have things his way. "I've finally tweaked G enough to amplify without triggering a cytokine storm in the host. I'm about to end cellular death, and I'm surrounded by incompetence! Why couldn't you do your jobs for once?"

"William, that is enough." Annette spoke with the tone of undeniable authority: the universal 'mother voice.' "We will take care of this."

"You'd better," His bleary gaze held firm on Lawrence. "You'd…just…better."

With that, he spun on his heels. His bleach-white basketball shoes, Reeboks which had not been within a city block of a basketball court, made soft squishing sounds as he sulked back to the P3 labs in search of fellowship under the magnified view of his microscope.

Lawrence watched Birkin hustle away and stifled a laugh. The image of a grown man stamping his feet and venting his frustration on a roomful of office supplies bordered on the comically absurd. He assumed that most people felt the same way. Did the dough-faced kid upstairs have a private snicker at his expense?

Paper stirred and whispered along the floor. Lawrence turned to the sound. The tails of Annette's labcoat followed her as she skittered on her knees.

"Damn," she muttered. She had a bale of looseleaf tucked under one arm. "These were already correlated**.****"**

Lawrence crouched down, fished a pair of stray papers from under the fax machine.

"Bill took that well," he said.

Annette turned to him, tilted her head from one side to the other, her version of a shrug, and grabbed the papers he was holding out.

"He's stressed. He sees G as his life's work, and being taken off it to show Duvall around really…oh my God, what _happened_ to your hand?"

Lawrence held the hand out, wriggled four fingers. "I punched a television. Have you got any bandages?"

She leaned forward. "Your third metacarpal looks dislocated."

"I punched a wall, too."

"Couldn't reach Irons so you took it out on the building?" She passed him a handful of bandages.

Lawrence nodded and began a clumsy attempt at unwrapping a knuckle bandage. "It seemed appropriate at the time."

"Let me help you." Annette picked the dressing from between his fingers: the thin envelope trembled. She peered at his mangled hand. "You might need some stitches between the index and middle fingers. The cut's pretty deep."

"I've got bigger problems right now." He winced as the coagulant seared the laceration shut. This was another manageable inconvenience. He cherished his power over it.

Annette continued placing bandages until his hand seemed to have been placed in a rudimentary plaster mold. Her hands steadied as she worked, and Lawrence assumed that she also enjoyed having an easily rectifiable problem. It was good to find a likeminded co-worker. The Umbrella management seminars told him so.

She dropped her arms to her sides, gave a firm nod to her handiwork, and turned her eyes to his. She chewed her bottom lip, tapped a shoe tip against the desk.

"What are you going to do, Mister Jenkins?"

Lawrence laughed. "I don't even know yet. I'm running out of options. It's too late to call Sergei. I'm pretty sure he'd nuke half the state by this point."

"Vladimir was never an option, was he?" Her wintergreen eyes narrowed; she crossed her arms. "William and I lied through our teeth to keep Duvall occupied and Vladimir in the dark. It was a miracle that he never clued in."

In actuality, it had been a testament to Duvall's stupidity that headquarters was still unaware of the disaster. Wesker had called it; Duvall was an empty suit, childishly easy to lead away from suspicion. It was pure luck that he had left for Europe a day before the Aklay spill made its way into the papers.

Of course, cagey old Sergei, the ruthless tactician, would know what happened soon enough, and Lawrence could already imagine the phone call. He would let Wesker take care of that detail.

_-If Wesker gets here in time to handle thing.-_

"Sergei's not an option," he said.

"Good, you need to keep that STARS team away from the Arklay Facility. We're so close to finishing this. If they find the Arklay lab, we're sunk."

_-You're sunk. I'm dead-_

"I'll take care of it." Lawrence said. "All we need to do is delay the STARS team by a day. They'll want to find that missing hiker first, and if he ran into something from the URC Annex he must have wandered a few miles off the Valley Overlook trails. They'll have a tough time finding him as it is, and if they can't do an aerial search, it might take days."

Annette nodded, tapped that infernal foot against the edge of her desk. Lawrence frowned. He was tempted to step on it

"You're thinking of having our contractor disable the STARS helicopter. Let them wander around the forest for a day?" she asked.

Contractor, it was such a sanitary title for a man whose vocation consisted of bombs, guns and blood.

Yes, Lawrence intended on using his contractor. He had committed himself to a path of damnation, had abandoned the principles he once held dear. He turned his back on his neighbours, his community.

It was amazing just what a person could live with.

"I wonder when Robert Oppenheimer began to regret his involvement in the Manhattan Project. Was it when he saw those pictures from Hiroshima, the melted watch, frozen at eight-sixteen for all eternity? Or was it as soon as he felt that first bomb's shockwave at Los Alamos?"

Annette shook her head. Her foot stilled. "I don't follow."

Lawrence smiled. "Neither do I."

**AN- Sorry for using the C-word. It's one of the few swears that makes me wince, but I figure that Irons would be the type of guy to use it.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	28. That Smell

**July 14 1998. Arklay Forest.**

Forest turned away from Marini and Chambers' grim plotting and squinted down the river valley. Distant thunder ground against the mountainside. Rainclouds curdled across the mid-afternoon sky and reflected an unhealthy yellow that reminded him of a smoker's fingernails. Their voices carried far, and every sound echoed along the rock walls. The passing mosquitoes sounded like air-raid sirens.

He shuffled his feet, kicked at the dirt like a tethered horse. No patch of wilderness was supposed to be this calm. He wasn't superstitious, but he trusted his gut. Gut feelings were different than superstitions; they kept a soldier alive.

He closed his eyes and sniffed the heavy air. The evergreens and riverwater would have been pleasant enough if not for that faint smell of spoiled meat. It was difficult for a layman to imagine just how bad a corpse could smell. That old guy had been dead five days, picked clean and scattered across fifty yards of riverbed, and still, that rotten stink was filling his head, poisoning him.

For the tenth time that hour, he grabbed his Remy 700 and scanned upriver. Suckerfish bulled their round heads against a sunken log. Near the shore, a chain of evidence tags searched for their shadows and marked the coming and going of whoever had butchered Alan Merritt.

For the tenth time that hour, he checked the conditions: no wind, unobstructed view from the northwest and southeast. He had at least eight-hundred yards' effective range. Now that their mission had switched from a ground search to crime scene investigation he had one task to perform, and it would be no trouble at all.

So why was he struck with a fullblown case of the jitters?

For the fifth time that hour, he did a radio check with Squid Aiken: still five-by-five. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, grabbed the binoculars and glassed the opposite cliff. If anything got the drop on them it would come from that far shore or from behind, and so he would stay alert.

He felt ready for an ambush.

Grass rustled; a branch crunched. Forest looked over and sent a nod Sullivan's way.

"Find anything?"

The other Bravo shook his head and unfolded a red polka-dot handkerchief. "One set of tracks…hiking boots, a little heavy on the right leg." He wiped the sweaty shine off his scalp and patted his neck.

"The old guy, Merritt?"

Sullivan nodded and skirted around the shell casings. "There was nobody up here but him."

Forest waved at the cartridges. "So what was he shootin' at? Why'd he fall?"

"That, is a question for Marini."

"Come on, Sully. Smart fella like you gotta have a notion. And don't be spoutin' that dumbass jarhead _'above my pay-grade__' _bullshit, even if you are a dumbass jarhead."

Sullivan raised his eyebrows —the closest he ever came to smiling— and cast his quick eyes to the mystery before them.

"Well, I'm no sharp tack like you Green Beret types, but this grouping of cartridges tells us he wasn't moving while he was shooting. This circular impression tells us he spun around, and that other deep heelprint, about six inches from the edge, says he fell backward. So I'd say he was attacked by something from the northeast, probably from down the trail because there wasn't a path cut through the bush."

Forest clucked in approval. Sullivan was one of the finest trackers he had ever met, better than he could ever hope to be. Of course, the old bloodhound did have twenty years' experience over him, five spent in Vietnam. With Sullivan's eye, finding Alan Merritt had been a cakewalk.

"Why no footprints then? The old guy left tracks all the way here."

Sullivan wiped his forehead and folded the handkerchief into a flat square. "Good question. It might have been an animal attack. Lindstrom's report said she was chased by dogs. Maybe a dog wasn't heavy enough to leave tracks. We've also had some rain since Merritt went missing. It could have washed away some shallow impressions."

Lindstrom's report: it bothered him that Irene's statement referred to her directly. Irene Lindstrom was a police officer, not some dipshit civvie who got scared half to death by a pack of wild dogs. It didn't help that a lot of the uniformed officers thought her story was an outright lie. At least they had the good sense to shut their traps around him.

Forest shook his head. "That Ruger would have stopped a dog."

"Maybe there was more than one."

"Where's the carcasses?"

"Good point. Maybe he was a bad shot?"

"Didn't think the Marines had any bad shots. But if he missed, where's the bullets gone to? He fired a half-mag, and I'm not seein' a single pockmark."

Sullivan sighed and turned his palms upward. "Well then, let me reiterate my '_that's a question for Marini'_."

Forest shrugged and checked the ravine. Dewey and Squid had forded the river and were stomping an area-search on the opposite shore. The new kid, Chambers, was white as her forensic smock, carrying what was left of Alan Merritt's forearm.

"Don't make much sense, do it?" he asked.

Sullivan didn't answer, and Forest could hear him fiddling with the dead man's camera. He glanced over. A spider had spun an impressive web between the tripod's legs and sunned its greybrown body near the hinge. It pricked its attention toward Sullivan's manhandling and disappeared.

"You think Marini'll even have an answer?"

"If anyone will, it's gonna be him. He's good." Sullivan peered through the viewfinder, pointed it toward a hollow in the opposite cliff. "Gotta say, it was a smart idea to use the pictures at Merritt's place to triangulate a location."

"Yeah, we wouldn't have even needed the chopper after Marini had it narrowed to one mile of riverbank. Course, if the old guy wandered, it'd have really lowered our probability of detection."

"We were lucky. It could have taken us days to find him without the helo."

"That wouldn't bother an ol' Force Recon boy like you, would it?" Forest grinned. "I thought you jungle-bunnies lived for this shit?"

"There's a reason why I quit the corps, Speyer."

Forest laughed, but the grin fell from his face. Below them, Chambers found another piece of Alan Merritt near the shore. She called to Marini; her juvenile voice echoed down the valley.

His stomach churned.

"Hell of a thing, ain't it?"

"Ain't what?" Sullivan asked.

Forest swept his hand over the scene. He felt like Moses at the base of Mount Sinai. "All this…murder…_cannibals_."

Sullivan clasped his hands behind his back. "Yes, it certainly is. And whoever these killers are, they're not interested in subterfuge. Look at Aiken and Dewey. I can see two clear paths through the bush. One coming, and one going."

Forest grabbed his rifle and traced the path Aiken was searching. "Clumsy sumbitch, too. Look at how cockeyed the trail is. I'd say the old guy shot him, but they're just as crooked coming in."

Sullivan grabbed Forest's binoculars. "I noticed that too. He could have been injured beforehand, or on drugs, maybe? A lot of satanic cults are into hallucinogens: Salvia, Psilocybin mushrooms, stuff like that. Or maybe he was just drunk?"

"I don't think so. Don't matter how much a fella drinks, a two-two-three'll still stop him dead. And drugs make a fella stupid, not bulletproof. The old guy got four shots off down there."

"True enough. Maybe Merritt missed? You can't tell me he'd be in good shape after falling off that cliff."

Forest slung the rifle and rubbed his neck. "Maybe…"

"But not likely,"

"Naw, not likely, statement said Merritt was one tough bastard, and a hell of a good shot."

Sullivan snuffled, scratched his beard. "Hell of a thing, then."

"Yep."

Thunder grumbled north of them, slowly rolling down the hills. The sound was exactly how he remembered those Serb M-84 Howitzers. He sniffed the air: riverwater and rot, no smoke or exhaust. He cracked his knuckles before his hands had the chance to shake.

"You figure we gonna get pissed on?" He'd ask Sullivan anything to force his mind off Bosnia.

"No, the pressure hasn't dropped yet. The rain'll hold off."

"How can you tell? You got a barometer stashed up yer crapper?"

Sullivan raised his eyebrows. "In my foot, actually."

"Your foot?"

"Yes, my foot." He kicked one heel out. Forest would never know how he managed to keep his boots clean after hiking through four clicks of gumbo. "I crushed it in seventy-two. It aches every time the pressure drops."

"No kidding?"

"I wouldn't kid you, Speyer."

Forest scratched at his whiskers. "Come to think of it, my Granddad used to tell me the same thing. He fell off a silo when he was young, said he'd feel the weather change in the shoulder he busted."

"Arthritis." Sullivan wiped the boot against his other pant leg, inspected it and squared it to his shoulder. "That's what makes the bones hurt."

Thunder rang down the mountainside. They watched a crow sail into a copse of trees.

"That so?"

"Yes, that is so." He handed back the binoculars. "I'm going to go down and tell Marini what I found, or what I didn't find. He'll want to come up and take a look as well. So watch your step."

Forest grinned and gave a casual salute. "Aye aye, Gunny."

Sullivan frowned, shook his head, and began picking his way to the riverbank. His sleeves' sharp creases strained against his swinging arms.

Forest chuckled. Only a tightass like Former Sergeant Ken Sullivan would bother starching a T-shirt. He shouldered his rifle, and for the eleventh time that hour, checked the conditions: still no wind, unobstructed view from the northwest and southeast. He had at least eight-hundred yards' effective range.

So why did he still have a fullblown case of the jitters?

He ignored his own question and sighted on that mansion's chimney. A pair of crows turned their heads and seemed to stare him down from three-thousand yards away. He frowned at them. When he was a boy, some crows had built a nest behind their outbuildings. He and his brother had shot it to pieces. A week later, the crows came back and built four nests. Decoys.

He didn't care for crows and didn't know many who did. They were too smart for their own good.

After a moment, he went back to scanning the crime scene and tried to convince himself that everything added in their favour. They were well-gunned and kitted in body armour. Squid had good contact with HQ, and there was a chopper en-route.

And yet he was spooked by a couple birds and a bit of thunder.

"You still awake, Speyer." Marini's voice cut through the trees.

"Yeah, I'm awake." He gave himself a kick in the ass, so damn busy woolgathering he didn't even hear Marini approaching. There was no doubt about it: he was slipping.

Marini shouldered his way through a thicket of poplars and ran a hand through his hair. A single leaf held its ground and poked out from the salt and pepper curls.

"Goddamn mosquitoes," Marini smacked his cheek and flicked the remains off his palm. "You got any bug-juice?"

Forest smiled as he remembered Fort Bragg, that thick-lipped Warrant-Officer pacing down a row of squirming recruits. _'Remember, the bugs won't kill you; the bastard who has you in his crosshairs will. If you move, he will see you, and if he sees you, you are dead.'_

"Naw, skeeters don't bother me. Little bastards sucked me dry and left me alone ever since."

"Well, Hell." Marini rolled down his cuffs and waved a hand in front of his face. "Seems like I'm the only one they're goin' after."

"Guess they must like you, Cap." Forest set the rifle aside and put the binoculars to his face. "Sully tell you about the tracks?"

"No, I came up here to visit you." Marini brushed past him. He took a few quick photos of the cartridges and then pulled out his voice recorder.

"Edge of Skene River valley, seventy-five feet above where body was discovered. Half-dozen two-twenty-three casings found in a tight grouping." He stopped the recorder, squinted at the slapdash footprints, and then clicked it back on. "Shoe-impressions indicate rearward movement toward the embankment."

He shoved the recorder in his pocket and snapped another pair of photos. Marini may have been a nasty-tempered SOB, but he was a damn smart SOB. Apparently he had scored the highest marks ever recorded on the RPD's detective exam—even higher than Captain Wesker—but instead of buying an ugly suit and moving in with the other investigators, he put on a flak vest and joined STARS. They were fortunate to have him. Bravo Team had plenty of tracking experience, but aside from Marini, they had nothing for criminal investigative know-how.

"The old boy did a bit of dancing up here." Forest said.

"Uh, huh," Marini reached into a back pouch and planted a grove of evidence flags. He recorded each tag number on his memo pad. "What kind of action have you been seeing? We secure?"

Forest looped the binoculars around his neck and turned to Marini. "That all depends. You want a sitrep, or what my gut tells me?"

"The only time I'd care about your gut is if you've got the shits and I'm sitting next to you. Tell me what you see."

Forest nodded. "Not seein' a lot. Couple birds is all. I got good visibility, and I'm keepin' a close eye on Squid and Dewey. We're safe, I figure."

"Good." Marini pulled out another notepad and began to sketch Merritt's last dance. After a moment, he laid the pad aside. "Alright fine, what does your gut say?"

Forest sighed. He didn't feel right bellyaching without good reason, but his gut never lied. At Fort Bragg, he could always tell when someone had him in their scope.

"Feels like something's watchin' us." Forest scanned the horizon for movement. "I'd say we're about to get jumped."

Marini grabbed the notepad. His pen scratched across the paper.

"You feel it too, huh?"

Yes, he did. He could imagine the entire team, ten clicks from safety, running blind through the boonies while some crazies and their pets gave chase. He'd do alright, so would Sully, and probably Squid, but that little whelp Chambers barely passed her firearms certification, Dewey had bad knees, and Marini was a cop, not a soldier. They'd likely lose half the team, Chambers for sure. Hiring her was a mistake. She was sharp, but she was greener than a shamrock.

"I'd feel a lot better if we had our chopper here."

Marini grunted. His dark eyes seemed to flash red, and he flared his nostrils. He clearly hadn't gotten over their helicopter's sabotage and the loss of that coroner's evidence. Forest knew that Marini was bound to blow-up again— surprising he had any voice at all after the hollering he did that morning—and so he decided to backtrack.

"No sense cryin' for something that can't be helped, I suppose." Forest said with a shrug. "We did alright without it."

Marini's face relaxed. His eyes regained their bright interest, and he got back to sketching. "We did damn good. And you can stop being worried about the helicopter. I know a supply-specialist at the National Guard in Pendleton. He's shipping us a control panel for the Huey. The techs say they could have us flying by this evening. Besides, our loaner should be here soon."

"Yeah, but who the hell would break into a hangar and bust-up our chopper anyway? Suspicious, ain't it?"

Marini snorted. His lips disappeared behind his moustache. "We worry about that later. Right now I want this scene boxed-up by sundown so we can do an IR search for the fuckers who did this."

"Don't want the Alphas to have this one?"

"What I want is for you to shut up and let me work."

"Sure thing, Cap." Forest went back to searching the valley, while behind him Marini mumbled notes to himself and barked orders to the rest of the team. Squid hailed them and said that their chopper was inbound. Marini told him to have it land two-hundred yards down the river. A minute later, came a chopper's unmistakable thump and whistle, and Forest followed the orange and white Willamette Mountain Rescue S-76 over the treetops, into the valley. The pilot kept the rotors from the cliff and kicked up a ring of mist as he eased onto the wide shore. The chipped blades slowed; the engine quit with an oily cough, and the landscape regained its uneasy quiet.

Forest frowned. The chopper's paint was chipped, sideglass clouded, skids bent and rusty. The pilot had a Jesus beard and hair long enough to cover his earphones.

"Where'd you find this thing, Cap?"

Marini smiled and smacked a mosquito. "The rescue coordinator owes me a favour for that Mount Hood job."

"And he gave you _that_? Ain't much of a payment if you ask me."

"If you'd rather hike back to the road with a duffle-bag full of evidence, I could…Hey Speyer, aim your rifle for me."

Forest frowned. "Huh?"

"Just aim your damn rifle at something, over there." He pointed to the southwest.

Forest targeted that mansion's chimney.

After a moment, he heard Marini nod to himself. "Okay, good. You can drop the gun now." He scratched a few quick notes. "Merritt was shooting at something from the southwest. Then he jumped over that log, jumped back over, then he stumbled backward over the cliff."

Forest turned and rubbed his chin. "How'd you figure that out? The footprints?"

"Yeah," Marini pointed to a pair of U-shaped divots. "That's where he was shooting from. The deep one is his right heel, the long one is the inside-edge of his left foot."

"Oh yeah, I see it now. And then he boogies over behind that log?"

"That's right," Marini said.

Forest frowned. Merritt must have been shooting at something on the other side of the ravine. Why would he have hid behind the log? It was possible that his killers were shooting back, but that wouldn't explain why Merritt jumped off the cliff.

_-Unless he was surrounded-_

He shivered. "What you make of it, Cap? What was he shootin' at?"

Marini shrugged in his flak vest. "I'd say the eagles, but, according to his family, he loved them more than his own kids. Besides, you don't take carbine bird shooting."

"You bring a shotgun," Forest said. "So what attacked him, then?"

"Not sure, maybe nothing. All I know for certain is that Merritt was shooting to the southwest, and we need to be out of here by sunset. I want these fuckers in cuffs by breakfast, even if we're out here all night. We're gonna let the Alphas mop-up after us for a change."

Forest smiled, "Suits me."

_-Not like I'll be sleeping anyway-_

He dropped the smile, shouldered the rifle and scanned the opposite cliff, letting the reticule settle on the mansion's chimney. The crows were still there, and they turned to stare at him. He mouthed a pair of bangs.

Creepy damn birds.

* * *

**AN- Can you tell that I don't like Rebecca much?**

**Also I think Maiafay deserves credit for that last line there. She referred to the cereberuses (cereberi?) as 'creepy damn dogs' and I liked the sound of it.**

**So I stole it!**

**Stay tuned.**

**-C**


	29. Free Bird

**July 14 1998. Arklay Forest.**

"Come on, move!"

Forest gave Chambers a shove. The duffle-bag smacked against her back, and she doubled forward. She flailed, found her feet and leapt ahead like a spooked deer.

Sullivan's head knocked against his shoulder. He staggered and grabbed at Forest's webbing.

Behind them, those hell-dogs scrambled over themselves. Not a pack, no clear leader, just a black swarm with sharp teeth.

Blood hammered through his veins. His temples throbbed.

Sullivan hooked an arm around him.

Ed Dewey finally stopped screaming.

FUBAR, SNAFU, Clusterfuck —all those Army terms they used for a mission gone sideways— none of them did the current situation justice. This was nothing they taught at Fort Bragg. There was no enemy to outflank and enfilade. There was no tactical retreat, no covering-fire. All they could do was run.

"Right side of the mansion, big window, Go!" He shot out two panes. Sharp triangles winked lightning at them.

Chambers veered for the opening. The dogs snapped and barked. Sullivan groaned and dragged one heel.

"Hey, Sully?"

Sullivan grunted something that sounded like a what.

"There's a window twenty yards ahead." He took a quick look at Sullivan. He was pale, and blood trickled from one ear. "You're gonna have to run for it. Chambers'll help you through."

Sullivan rolled his head.

"You can make it?"

Sullivan nodded.

"Alright, ten yards up, GO NOW!" He pushed Sullivan toward the window, ejected his spent mag, and fumbled at his waist-pouch. The fresh reload slammed home with a hungry snap.

"Chambers, help Sully though!"

Chambers hopped through and turned to receive Sullivan. Her eyes were huge and round, like shiny white skeet-pigeons

Five yards to safety. Sullivan would need time to get through. He spun and sighted down his Beretta. The closest dog —twenty yards and closing— disappeared behind his front-sight's white paint. He exhaled, let it get in his killzone, and resighted. Its stomach was slit, and a double sausage-link of intestine trailed behind. White skull contrasted filthy fur. Two shots dropped it.

Dark shadows closed in, two more dogs at nine o-clock. Five shots stopped them, half a mag left. He glanced to the window. Sullivan was sagging over Chambers. The tiny medic's knees shook under his two-hundred pound frame.

"C'mon, hurry!" He took careful steps backward. Another hell-hound was closing in fast, well into his killzone. A single bullet sheared-off the left side of its head. It veered right and crashed into the mansion like a hairy missile.

Another quick peek, Sullivan was though. The dogs homed-in on him. He fired once more, caught a big one in the front shoulder. It collapsed and plowed a furrow with its muzzle, ending a foot in front of him. Time up, he spun, sprinted, and leapt through the empty window-frame.

There was no time to take in the mansion's features. His soldier's mind searched only for possible threats, his teammate's position, and their escape route.

_-Threats: the dogs behind me, nothing inside. Team's five yards up, exit's the door they're at-_

Chambers had the door swung wide, invisible under Sullivan and the duffle-bag. He could hear her whistling gasps over the dogs.

Glass crunched behind him. Something growled. He charged forward, grabbed Sullivan in a linebacker's tackle, and bowled him and Chambers into the next room. He caught the door as he passed and slammed it shut. They fell in a heap. Chambers dropped her pistol. The dog thumped against the door and howled in frustration.

Sullivan groaned; Chambers gasped for air. Forest was already up, scanning their new room.

_-Nothing moving, L-shaped hallway, two exits other than the one we just left. Secure the room and reassess-_

He allowed a moment to shake the jitters out, trembled and took jackrabbit breaths, but a moment was all he would afford, and he balled his hands and forced even breathing. He walked over and put an ear to the door. The dogs on the other side were madder than ever, but the door was strong and heavy: a real fingerbreaker. A Doberman could never knock it down.

Although he never thought a Doberman could chase a man while its guts were hanging out like party streamers. Tonight was full of surprises.

They killed Ed Dewey, dragged him off and tore into him like wolves. The more he screamed, the hungrier they got, and the more showed up. They ate him from the legs up. He was alive until the very end.

He frowned and returned his attention to the room. The lights were on, and it was cleaner than he expected an abandoned building to be. There was little doubt that the cannibal killers were using this place as a hideout, so much for Umbrella's assurances that the place was secure.

He readied his Beretta and checked the other doors. One was locked, and the other was an empty hallway. They were safe, for now.

Sullivan groaned.

"Sully, you doin' okay?" Forest took a knee and gave him a gentle shake. His breathing was shallow, his lips wet with spittle. A bloody crust gelled on one earlobe.

"Sully?"

Sullivan fixed his eyes on him. One pupil was bigger than the other. "We crashed..."

"Yeah, we crashed all right," Forest said. "Turbine failed."

"I heard an explosion…before…sounded like a small plastique charge."

Forest wiped his forehead and recalled the crash. There had been that hollow whump, that gut-twisting ride into the trees, Chambers screaming, and Dooley shouting 'hold on'.

The chopper hit a big Oak tree as they spun in. A branch shattered the windscreen, took Dooley's head clean off. It landed in Squid's lap. The control panel crumpled and broke Ed Dewey's leg. They had to cut him out with a fire-axe.

Ken Sullivan heard a primary detonation.

And Ken Sullivan was never wrong.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure..." His eyes lost focus. "I think something's wrong with me. Knocked my contacts out…I think."

"We'll see to you." He gave him a pat on the shoulder, glanced at Chambers. She had kicked herself into a corner and held both hands in front of her chest. Her bottom lip trembled, and those big hazel eyes were fixed on the door. She flinched every time the dogs rammed it.

"Hey,"

She didn't respond, just a flinch and a sniffle.

"Hey, Chambers!" He crawled over, positioned himself between her and the door. "Chambers!"

She pulled into herself. Teary ribbons gleamed on either side of her nose.

Anger bubbled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake. "Hey! You snap out of it _right now!"_ He spoke with a Drill Instructor's clipped commands, spun her toward Sullivan. "You're our Medic, and we've got a hurt man here."

He gave her another shake, gentler this time. "You reading me?"

She blinked, gave a hesitant nod. Her bottom lip drew tighter.

"You done your little freak-out?"

"Yeah." Her eyes lost that animalistic panic and sharpened to quick concern. She crawled over to Sullivan, already grabbing into her pack.

"Kenneth, talk to me." She pulled out a penlight and shone it into his eyes.

Sullivan grunted and smacked at her.

Satisfied that Chambers was straight for the time being, Forest turned back to the door. It trembled in its frame, and dust whiffed from the top casement. As he picked up Chambers' Beretta, a narrow crack opened in the lower panel.

_-There's no way a dog could do that-_

There was also no way a dog could crush a man's leg-bones, but they had done that as well. He heard the snap, loud over Dewey's screams.

He cracked his knuckles, walked to the duffle-bag, and set to unpacking.

"Sully going to be okay?" he asked.

Sullivan groaned.

Chambers clicked her tongue. "I think he might have cerebral contusion in the frontal lobe. He can't focus his eyes, and his motor control is off. Or it might just be a bad concussion. Either way, that run didn't help."

"Uh huh…" Forest opened the bag, frowned at the unfamiliar gun-case. "Can you fix him?"

"I'm going to try, but there isn't much I can do if his brain is swelling. Can you hand me that first-aid kit?"

Forest slid the white box over, turned back to the case, and undid the latch.

A deep frown cut above his eyes, and he muttered under his breath. He'd told Squid to grab his rifle. It seemed that a Navy man couldn't tell the difference between a Remington Seven-hundred and a Milkor tear-gas launcher.

Those dogs barely flinched at nine millimetre rounds. He doubted that tear-gas would do much but piss them off.

A search of the bag turned up a signal kit, a can of hemostatic spray, two boxes of .338 Lapua rounds, and a half-dozen flashbangs. No rifle, no pistol rounds. "Dumbass fucking Squid." He turned from their kit and walked over to Chambers and Sullivan.

"Stay, with me, Kenneth." Chambers was waving a vial under Sullivan's nose.

Sullivan swore and swatted at her.

"Any change?" Forest asked.

Chambers checked his eyes again. "No, but he's not getting any worse, so that's a good sign."

"You're bleeding." Forest pointed at her hand. "You get bit?"

She paused, wiped at the gash between her thumb and trigger-finger, and patted her empty holster. She blushed as he handed her the missing pistol. "I got my hand caught in the gun's slide."

"Gotta watch those Beretta bites. You don't wear shooting gloves?"

She gazed at the floor and wiped her nose. It left a red streak along her upper lip. "I took them off while I was treating Edward."

Forest didn't answer.

A dog howled and charged the door. The crack widened.

Sullivan groaned.

"You're bleeding too, Forest."

Forest glanced down, at last allowed the scrap-iron throb in his left forearm to take president. He held the arm out and inspected the torn flesh. "One of those mutts got me." He frowned at the haggard holes, the purple-red swelling around the wound. "Sumbitch bit pretty hard."

"Let me see." Chambers got to her feet and started toward him.

"It's okay." He waved her off. "Just worry about Sully. Ain't the first time a dog bit me."

Yes, but a dog had never bit him this hard, and why the hell did it itch so much?

"Kenneth will be alright for a minute. Give me your arm."

"I'm tellin' you, I'm fine. I ju…_motherfuck_!" He jerked his arm away, but she held tight and kept dousing him with hemostat. The pain needled and flashed white. He pulled again.

She bucked forward but held fast. "Quit it, you'll tear it worse!"

Forest ground his teeth. He would almost rather bleed to death than be sprayed with that damn stuff. It felt like being cooked from the inside. At last, she released him. He drew away, put some distance from her.

"Sorry for swearin' but you could've warned me you were gonna do that."

"You wouldn't have let me."

He eyed the blackened scabs. That confusing itch still gnawed his skin; dark blood welled around every cut.

"I could've done it myself."

"Sorry, but I-" She frowned. "Hold your arm out for me again."

Forest complied.

The frown deepened. "Do you have low platelets, Forest?"

"Say again?"

"Are you anemic? Any trouble with clotting?"

Forest shook his head. "Normally I got gravy for blood."

"Well, that spray should have sealed you up, and you're still bleeding. Have you donated blood recently?"

He shook his head.

She grabbed his arm, gave him another spray.

Forest gave her another 'motherfuck'.

"I don't understand." She rubbed a finger between her eyebrows. "I'll need to put a dressing on it."

"Do what you need to keep me moving. We can't be-"

"_STARS Bravo…come in, over."_

They both turned to the voice, consonants smoothed over with static interference, but unmistakably Squid Aiken. Sullivan grimaced and pawed at the radio clipped to his belt.

"_STARS Bravo…come in, over."_

Forest shooed Chambers away, bent over, and slid the Motorolla out of Sullivan's belt. Something deep inside relaxed. Special Forces had conditioned him to operate on his own, but he was so far from a standard mission that even a single extra friendly came as tremendous relief. "This is Speyer. I'm reading you three-by. Go ahead."

A different voice answered, deep and gruff with words too loud and fast, nowhere near Squid's disciplined diction. "_This is Marini. Who's with you? You alone?"_

"Negative, Captain. I have Sullivan and Chambers."

"_Good, are you guys alright?"_

"Sullivan is injured and immobile. Chambers and I are good."

"_What happened to Dewey?"_

"Dewey's dead. Those dogs caught him."

Marini didn't respond, but Forest knew he was swearing.

"_What's your location?"_

"We're in a mansion a half-click northwest of the chopper. We're on the ground floor on the west side, in a hallway."

There was a lengthy pause. Forest tried to hail Marini several times. His idle hand scratched the injured forearm.

At last Marini's angry rasp cut through the static. The signal was clearer, four-by-five, but Marini's voice was hard to make out over the heavy breathing. "_You still there, Speyer?"_

"Affirmative."

"_Good, we're in the mansion as well: the backside, near some sort of courtyard. We-"_ Marini's voice was drowned-out by Squid shouting 'look out' and a shotgun's hollow bark.

"Marini, come in."

"_Marini here" _The Captain took a whistling breath. It stirred the static on the line. _"One of those fucking dogs smashed in a window. Do you have the bag Aiken packed?"_

Forest sneered at the grenade launcher. "Affirmative."

"_Is the flare gun there?"_

He opened the signal-kit. A cartoon-orange revolver with squat red cartridges lay on its coiled lanyard. "Affirmative."

"_Good. Aiken says he can't get a signal to HQ, and that crash probably triggered the chopper's Emergency Locator Transmitter. We've got to signal anyone coming to rescue us. If they set down by the site, they'll get torn apart. Can get up to the roof?"_

Forest scratched his arm. He had seen a second-storey balcony during their run to the mansion. If he could get a decent handhold on a gutter or something, he could make it to the roof.

"_Speyer, come in."_

"Speyer, here, affirmative. The roof should not be a problem." He glanced at Sullivan and Chambers. "What orders do you have for Chambers?"

"_Tell her to stay where she is, and leave the radio with her. We'll rendezvous with them."_

"Roger that."

"_And Speyer."_

"Go ahead."

There was a short pause, and when Marini spoke next, his voice was softer, less muddied by the static. _"Be careful. We saw someone through a second-storey window. We're not alone here."_

Forest's hand made an instinctive move for his Beretta. "Roger that, Speyer out."

The line went dead. He handed the radio to Chambers and took a knee in front of Sullivan.

"How's he doing?" He picked a compression bandage out of the first-aid kit and gave his arm a tight wrapping.

"I'm okay…just…dizzy." Sullivan grimaced and put a hand to his head. He was the colour of old coffee.

"He's stable." Chambers stowed the Motorolla.

"How many mags you got left, Chambers?"

She frowned. "Mags?"

He sighed and pulled out his gun. "The things that go in here."

"Oh…_clips_." She patted her waist pouch. Her face sagged. She looked so much older than nineteen. "I…um…"

"You didn't clip your pouch after a reload."

She dropped her head and sniffed. If she started crying again, he was bound to give her a kick in the ass.

"They must have fallen out." She thumped a fist against her thigh. "Shit!"

Forest ran a palm down his face. "No matter." He grabbed Sullivan's shoulder. "Hey, Sully, how many mags you got?"

Sullivan gave his head a shake, as if he were roused from a sleep, and pawed at his ammo pouches.

"I've got all my loads, plus the one in my pistol." He chuckled. "Didn't fire a single shot."

"You mind spotting me a pair?"

He flopped a clumsy hand over the snap. "Help yourself." The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. "At least you can put them to use."

"Thanks." He stowed the mags and pointed to Chambers' pistol. "You know how many rounds you got left?"

She nodded "I have four."

"Good. With any luck you won't need 'em, though. Just sit tight, but if that door gets in any worse shape, you'll have to move on."

"I'll keep in contact with Richard and the Captain."

"Good."

Chambers handed him the half-can of hemo. "Watch your arm, okay?"

"Yes ma'am." He stood and grabbed the worthless grenade launcher. If nothing else, he could beat someone to death with it. "See you in a bit."

_-Don't get yourself killed- _

* * *

The first few rooms were quiet: a pair of darkened offices and a storage closet that smelled like stale roadkill. Forest continued his search for a stairway, kept his gun drawn and his footsteps light. His boots padded on the hardwood, whisked over the occasional sheet of paper. The mansion looked like someone had stuck a hand-grenade in a filing-cabinet. Some rooms had more paper than rug. He didn't spend much time looking at them —paper didn't have teeth, and so it wasn't a threat— but it was mostly long strings of numbers and letters, and all written on Umbrella letterhead. This wasn't a surprise; Marini had said Umbrella was using the mansion as archives and for chemical storage. It seemed the killers were busying themselves making a mess of the archives. He didn't want to think of what they were doing with the chemicals, probably drinking the stuff, crazy bastards.

He paused, stared through a dusty window. Lighting flashed behind the trees like faraway cannon-fire. Dog-sized shadows prowled on the other side of an iron gate. His Beretta stayed trained on the glass as he sidestepped to the next door.

Two doors down and he was sweating. His pulse thumped an uneasy rhythm, and rusty nails stabbed his temples. He took a breath and scratched the bloody gauze on his arm. That dried swampy smell was stronger here, soaked into the Turkish carpets and silk wallpaper. Music played somewhere: old lounge type stuff, probably Frank Sinatra. He swallowed and wiped his forehead, pricked an ear toward a door to the right. He heard something: a light thump, like combat boots falling to the floor, and then a wet smack, definitely not Sinatra.

"_I've got you…under my skin…" _The tune drowned it out again.

The hinges squeaked as he cracked the door, slow and careful. The opening revealed another black room. He stopped, killed light for the room he was in —no sense giving anyone a nice silhouette to shoot at— and inched into the new hallway.

Quiet steps, quiet breaths. He grabbed his mag-light, modified with a red filter to preserve his night-vision, and swung the pistol wherever the beam fell.

"_Don't you know, little fool, that you never can win?" _

He heard a soft grunt, fabric tearing. Something rolled from under one foot with a musical tink. It was a bullet cartridge; he'd know that sound anywhere.

The light fell on another wall. The wallpaper was torn and sagged like a parachute. The plaster was knocked down to the laths. He took a silent step, bunted an unseen bullet cartridge. It was small from the sound of it, probably a pistol round.

The music screeched, skipped. Frank Sinatra went back to calling him a little fool.

That muffled grunt again, a light thud.

He passed a locked door, swung around a corner, kept the flashlight at arm's length and his body close to the wall. The beam picked up three divots. The holes were dished sideways, long comet-shaped scars. The shooter had fired from the other end of the hallway.

"_...under my skin…"_

He swung the flashlight; an overturned china cabinet blocked a door. White crockery gleamed on red carpeting like a mouthful of broken teeth. A dull-black pistol poked out of the shards: a lonely grain of pepper in a pile of salt.

The music skipped. He ghost-walked to the cabinet. Porcelain gnashed under his boots. With an ear turned to the mystery noise, he grabbed the gun: a .40 caliber Glock, breech open, no magazine, useless. He let the gun drop.

His hand came back bloody.

He wiped the hand on his fatigues and scratched his arm. His heart was racing, and he was sweating like a nun in a whorehouse, but his hands held steady. He was on mission. He was good.

"_I've got you deep in the heart of me…"_

Back on his feet, he shone the light over the expensive barricade, and froze at the horror on the other side. Near the other end, there was a corpse, white skin, torn grey uniform, brown blood. And there was a man hunched over the body, both hands were at his mouth.

Forest aimed his pistol. The man's tarnished tie-clip disappeared behind his front sight.

"Hey! Stand up now!" Forest sucked a breath, that awful stink: worse than the dead-pile on the family farm, worse than Srebrenica.

The man grunted, dropped a pink tube with accordion pleats. Forest recognised it as an esophagus. He ground his teeth. His bitten forearm screamed to be itched.

"This is the RPD. Stand up now or I _will_ shoot. And keep your hands where I can see them."

The cannibal raised his head, gave a low moan as if in orgasm, and Forest let his gun's muzzle drop along with his jaw.

_-I'm dead. We crashed, and I was killed, and now I'm in Hell, damned for not protecting those refugees-_

The man's Slavic features, broad mouth and coarse black hair: as Bosnian as they came. His bluegrey skin and hollow eye sockets, those skeleton's fingers, tarred redblack with the other man's lifeblood. The man was a walking corpse.

Forest was dead, and his punishment for falling short in The Saviour's eyes was to be killed by the men murdered by his inaction. He was to be ripped apart, cast off in a forgotten corner and left to rot, invisible to the world's eyes.

Just as what had been done to the men and boys of Srebrenica.

"No."

His judgement tottered to its feet and picked itself over the china cabinet.

"Oh, Lord. Please."

He had been tried and was found wanting, damned.

_"You shall reap what you have sown."_

The dead man's eyes glowed brimstone under Forest's flashlight. Those reaper's fingers were stretched out, yearning, ready to claim Forest and drag him into the depth of Hell.

Forest shook. The flashlight wobbled.

The dead Bosniak groaned and opened his black mouth. Its thin lips, cracked to the muscles underneath, quivered as if in benediction. Its skinned palms rippled wet brown under the red light.

Forest's flashlight fell from the man's ruined face, landed on an ID tag clipped his breast pocket. It was smeared with thick black unknowable, but Forest could make out the Umbrella logo and a name: N. Shevchenko.

Forest blinked, took a step back.

Shevchenko was a Ukrainian name. Bosnians had those screwy accents on their letters.

And no Bosnian refugee dressed that well. This guy looked like a college professor, except kill-floor filthy.

Forest shook his head, took another step away. Irene said her attacker in the woods had been wearing a mask made of dead skin. That was what this looked like. Except this one seemed to be wearing a full body-suit.

"Stop right there." The authority in his voice was missing. He sounded like Chambers.

The man gurgled and staggered forward like a boozehound at last call. Forest leapt back. The killer's fingers, slippery like rotten vegetables, grazed his arm.

Forest controlled his breathing, put three feet between himself and the man. "I said stop right there. I _will_ shoot."

_-Never aim for the head with a pistol, too inaccurate. Go for the center of mass, lots of organs to hit- _

The degenerate offered no sign of complying. The gun shook in Forest's hand, steadied as he put pressure on. The gun barked. The room flashed yellow.

Shevchenko staggered; one arm pinwheeled. A scrap of skin peeled off and lobbed past Forest's head.

He fired again, an inch above his first round. Dark blood painted the overturned cabinet, and the man crumpled into a brown and grey lump.

_-Killed a man. Holy shit-_

He let a breath out, scratched his arm, and took careful steps toward the crumpled figure.

"_I said to myself, this affair never will go so well."_

The music skipped, reset to the chorus. Forest crouched over Shevchenko's body. God did he ever stink. He set the flashlight aside, checked for a pulse. His fingers swam through folds or putrid skin, slid along cold wet tendon. He held his breath. A boyhood's worth of butchering pigs had taught him enough to know when he was inside something. He frowned, rolled Shevchenko over, and grabbed his flashlight.

He forced his heartbeat steady.

This man wasn't wearing someone else's skin. He was rotten. Forest's fingers had dug clean into his neck.

"Holy Hell." Forest wiped his hand clean, scratched his arm. "How the-"

Sinatra screeched, and the unmistakable sound of cracking wood and squealing hinges echoed from around the corner.

Footsteps: heavy and fast.

Forest stood, pointed his flashlight, and got into a shooter's stance. His back foot settled on Shevchenko's hand.

A shadow rounded the corner, thin and bent forward with long arms. It passed though the flashlight's beam in a heartbeat, faster than those dogs, but Forest had enough time to see what it was.

The man was naked at the waist, with skin like an overripe tomato. He had a black beard, eyes like gumballs, and long fingers that tapered into claws the length of railway spikes.

Forest fired instantly. If N. Shevchenko was supposed to be his judgement, than the thing careening toward him was Satan himself.

_-Not Satan, he's got an Umbrella ID clipped to his belt. Come on, slow down!-_

Forest corrected his aim, fired twice. His bullets opened bloodless craters above the sternum.

The thing wheeled left, wheeled right, clawed a harrow though the wallpaper.

Forest kept firing, three more bullets: all good hits. The thing's chest was open like a Thanksgiving turkey, but it continued its charge, faster than any man Forest had ever seen. It grunted like a big ape, and swept one of its wicked claws toward him. Retreat was blocked; Forest sidestepped. The claws sliced though his right bicep. His hand went numb; his pistol clattered to the dark floor.

"Shit!" Forest scrambled away. Hot blood rained off his elbow.

The red thing kept after him, grunted in satisfaction. Its jaw hung wide. Jagged teeth leaked red. It had breath like a steak left on the counter. It lunged, sliced at Forest again, ripped though his flak vest.

_-Fuck he's fast!-_

Forest jumped backward, flexed his right hand, weak but workable, and unslung the grenade launcher. He grabbed the barrel with both hands and swung it like a hardballer hitting for the bleachers. He caught the thing in the head, drove it sideways into a wall.

The music skipped.

The man-devil staggered forward and grabbed him by the belt. It was strong as it was fast, and before Forest had time to react, those broken teeth had battened themselves into his shoulder.

"_Sonofawhore_!" Pain rocketed to the top of his head. The thing twisted sideways like a bulldog. The grenade launcher dropped.

Forest swore. His free hand patted his pockets for a weapon, any weapon, and fell on a pistol grip, only lighter and softer than his Beretta.

_-The flare gun?-_

It would do.

The thing clawed at Forest's back, ripped tufts out of his vest. Forest closed his eyes, brought the gun to the thing's head and squeezed the oversized trigger.

The gun fired with a muffled '_fwap'_. The room flashed sunrise-orange, and the thing bent backward. Its claws released Forest and snatched at its own face, sliced at the skin. The thing squealed like a razorback and swung its head. White phosphorous glowed from one eye socket. Brown steam curdled along the ceiling. It slashed the wallpaper into ribbons, rammed a door. The light fixtures clinked.

And as if the thing had been switched to _off_, it dropped its head and sagged to the hardwood, leaving an arterial-red streak on the yellow wall.

"Shit…"

Forest stood silent, rigid as a recruit, breathing like a horse in full gallop. Opposite to him, the red thing sizzled and popped. The white light from its skull winked out, and until Forest's night vision returned, the room was a black void with a spot of red penlight.

"_little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…" _

He clamped a hand over his bleeding shoulder, clenched his gut, and forced the throwup down his throat. That cooked smell from the red man was just about the worst thing ever. He had smelled burning bodies before, sort of an oily-sweet smell, but this was something new: phosphor and spoiled meat and embalming fluid.

"_little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…" _

The room swam and bleached grey. He needed to get out, needed to get somewhere safe and fix himself up. With fingers wrapped around his bicep and his thumb pressed into the bite-wound, Forest collected his gear and made a tactical retreat in the direction he came.

"_little fool…little fool…little fool…little fool…" _

* * *

Ten minutes later, Forest leaned heavy on a wooden railing leading upstairs. Blood leaked through the bandages he had cut from his shredded vest. His arm was wrapped tight enough to make the fingers tingle, but he just wouldn't clot.

Once at the top, he gave his head a little shake, cleared the fuzzy eyesight, and did a quick recce: wood paneling, a discarded white coat, crooked pictures. He was still the only living thing in the hallway.

Forest frowned. Apparently 'living thing' wasn't a very good descriptor anymore. He needed to get familiar with referring to himself as 'the only moving thing'. He had run into another of those walking corpses: Umbrella staffer, J. Howe, according to the ID tag. It had taken a half-mag to drop him. J. Howe hadn't been wearing Kevlar, and every bullet punched clean holes through his chest, yet somehow J. Howe hadn't felt them.

Forest scratched his arm. The wounded flesh had turned the colour of prunes and smelled like a ripe fart. What the Hell was wrong with him?

_-Stop fretting, you've got a job to do-_

He had to keep moving. There was good chance a rescue team was already inbound. He kept west, found an unlocked door, and entered a smallish room. It was similar to others he had investigated: well-finished antique furniture, overturned stacks of notes. He trailed his fingers along a rolltop desk, over a backgammon board with a coffee ring on it. Across the room, a nightmarishly deformed fetus floated weightless in yellow formaldehyde. It regarded him with insect-eyes curtained behind wax lids.

So much for archives and chemical storage, Umbrella was doing some sort of experiment here: something that had melted their skin and destroyed their minds.

Before he could explore the thought further, the room swam away from him. He grabbed a highback chair, gasped, and threw up. A few deep breaths got him stable, and he checked the dressings on his right arm. Why hadn't that hemo spray done anything?

It didn't matter right now. There was a window in this room, and beyond it, an iron railing that shone dull-grey in the moonlight.

"'Bout time." A jab with the grenade launcher made easy work of the glass. Forest climbed through, grateful for fresh air.

With his Beretta leading the way, Forest secured the balcony: nothing but rusty furniture, overgrown plants, and bird shit. He stopped near a stained glass window, twice the size of his F-250, and allowed a smile. A metal trellis ran to the roof on both sides, easy climbing compared to the muddy rope-nets at Fort Bragg.

The smile fell. He just hoped he had the stamina to make it up.

_-Remember, climb with your legs. You'll tire yourself out if you just use your arms-_

He gave himself a reassuring nod, propped the grenade launcher on a bistro table, and got to climbing. The wind gusted and stirred the vines. They were thick as the Kudzu back home and tangled in his boots. Occasional lightning spawned disorientating shadows. Forest was panting after a minute. Sweat stung his eyes, and he was shivering.

He was halfway up when he heard scratching, like squirrels in an attic.

"CAW!"

Forest gripped the trellis and jerked his head over. Three feet up, a crow hunched on a ledge and peered at him with its moonlit eyes, curious and aggressive.

"CAW!"

"Yeah yeah, I know you're there." Forest kept climbing, brought himself closer to the bird.

Another crow landed nearby: a big one with a hooked beak. As it settled, a feather fluttered under Forest's nose. It smelled like silage and dust.

"CAW!"

He hoisted himself another foot and swatted the closest bird. "Go on. Git!"

The crow held its ground. It ruffled its feathers and fixed its black eyes on him.

Another crow landed nearby.

"CAW!" It bobbed forward, snapped at Forest's nearest hand.

Forest couldn't believe it. He'd heard that crows could be hostile, but he'd never seen it firsthand. Well, he had an inbound chopper, and no Tennessee Turkey was going to get in the way.

He got a good foothold. "Try that again, shithead."

His hand settled on the Beretta.

"CAW!"

Its jagged beak clicked. Forest's gun answered back. The crow disappeared in a bad smelling spackle of blood and feathers.

"That's right you little-"

The rest of his boast was drowned out by a traffic-jam chorus of crows. In a split-second, the sky was full of black smudges. They swarmed from the trees, the roof, from under the balcony, moving with a single-minded coordination he had only seen with barnswallows and yellow-jackets.

_-Shit!-_

Noisy black shapes were everywhere. Forest's heartbeat rocketed, and he began a clumsy climb upward.

Not fast enough, not by any means. Something collided with his left thigh. It felt like being stabbed with a pencil.

"Fuck!" Faster, he had to move faster.

One leg slipped. He caught himself, leapfrogged upward. A crow landed on his back collar, snipped at his ear.

"Argh!" He grabbed it and squeezed. It bit his trigger-finger. Forest tightened his grip, felt bones crush. The crow let out a strangled cry and spat blood, but it kept biting, tore a chunk from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

Another crow landed on his shoulder, latched onto the soft skin near his jaw. It felt like a big shaving cut. Forest swore, crushed the crow he held into the wall and swatted the one on his shoulder. His feet slipped; he was hanging by one arm. His fingers skidded along the iron and snagged in a vee.

He heard his pinkie snap, and felt the wet evening wind buffet him as he fell.

_-Oh shit! Roll when you land, elbows first-_

He kept his body loose. It was instinct after his Eighteen-Bravo training. The crows followed him down, like fighters tailing a smoking bomber.

The ground came too soon. He must have misjudged. His right ankle rolled inward. The snap sounded like lake-ice in spring. Forest rolled, tried to find his feet. The sheared bone sliced at tendons. He screamed, but was drowned-out by the crows. One of the birds perched on his lapel and snapped his cheek. He waved a hand forward, bunted it away. It flew off with a chunk of flesh in its beak.

He moaned, crawled toward the window. A crow landed on his head, dipped forward and caught an eyelid. He grabbed the bird. It held tight, tore the lid. Forest screamed, pressed a hand against his eye. The crow settled on his collar, made a go for his tongue. Forest bit down, tasted spoiled meat and coffin dust.

Birds, so many birds. All he could hear were their rusty screeches. He could smell nothing but dust and blood and feathers. He elbowed forward with both hands crushed into his bleeding face. He had to make it to the window. He had to retreat and regroup.

The crows covered him: a living tar and feathering.

Forest tucked in tight, protected as much as he could. Blood flowed from a long slice on his neck.

Every bit of him was being pulled at. His clothing was torn, his skin shredded by claws and beaks.

The world brightened to an unearthly light.

His hair was yanked back.

His hearing tuned to the deafening ring of blood in his ears.

It sounded like rushing wind.

He fell.

_In that last month before varsity year summer-break, Hurricane Bonnie had swung up from Louisiana and clobbered much of the state. As the storm hit Pincher, his cousin Bert, one year older and skinny and wild, had convinced him to climb the granary roof. Painted wet, they hooted and leaned into the wind. Upturned roof-shingles wagged against their brogans. Hot rain filled their mouths. Their T-shirts snapped like square-rigged sails. _

_Below them, trout-coloured floodwater spilled from Dead Horse Creek and blitzed across the farmyard. They cheered and waved their arms, a pair of milk-fed immortals laughing defiant at their Creator's impotent fury. _

_And above them, the gunship clouds marched in soldier's rows toward Little Rock._

_He never felt so alive._

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 15 1998**

**Disaster in the mountains. Both STARS teams destroyed in explosion.**

**Ben Bertolucci.**

Early reports from the Raccoon Police Department indicate that both STARS teams were deployed into the Aklay Mountains yesterday night prior to the early morning explosion that lit up Raccoon City and broke windows as far as the Cider District.

Details are unclear at this point, but it is known that one STARS helicopter has crashed, and the majority of both teams are dead or missing. The RPD has yet to list which officers have been killed but-

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, July 16 1998**

**RPD confirm officers slain in Arklay Explosion. Refuse to provide details.**

**Ben Bertolucci**

At a press conference yesterday evening, RPD Chief Brian Irons confirmed that eight of the twelve STARS members perished in the explosion at the abandoned Spencer mansion, now a chemical storage facility owned by Umbrella Chemicals. Irons has confirmed that one STARS helicopter had crashed, but refused to provide any further details until 'an exhaustive investigation has been completed'.

Dead are Captain Enrico Marini 41, Captain Albert Wesker 38, Officer Kenneth Sullivan 45, Officer Joseph Frost 27, Officer Richard Aiken 26, Officer Willard Speyer 29, Officer Edward Dewey 40, and Special Officer Kevin Dooley 36. No bodies have been recovered, and Umbrella's Chemical Containment Unit claims the blast would have erased all traces of the fallen officers.

A memorial service will be held at the Umbrella Center July 18.

* * *

**Page A2, Raccoon Herald, July 16 1998**

**Latham evacuated due to toxic plume from Arklay fire.**

**George Shultz**

Under advisement from private crews battling the blaze at the site of the Spencer mansion fire, all seven thousand residents of Latham have been evacuated.

Facility owners, Umbrella Chemicals, are using their own specialised hazardous materials containment team to control the blaze and subsequent chemical spill following yesterday's accident. A company spokesman has assured that the evacuations are a precautionary measure, but necessary as many substances stored at the Arklay Facility can be hazardous if mixed.

* * *

**Front Page, Raccoon Herald, August 1 1998.**

**STARS disbanded. **

**Alyssa Ashcroft**

RPD spokesman Patrick Davies issued a memorandum yesterday morning that the department has no plans to reform the decimated STARS units. The paper makes no mention as to reasons for the move, nor does it mention the circulating rumours that STARS members were acting inappropriately and intoxicated prior to the disastrous crash July 14.

Davies could not be reached for comment, and Police Chief Irons did not return the paper's calls, but the memo pledges that when more information becomes available it will…

* * *

**Page A2, Raccoon Herald, August 4 1998**

'**Cannibal Killings' survivor scheduled to return home.**

**George Shultz**

Jeremy Houseman, the only known survivor to last month's sensational cannibal murders, was released from Raccoon General Hospital yesterday afternoon, bound for his Hillsboro hometown. Houseman's family state that Houseman is 'improving every day', both from the trauma suffered in the Arklay Forest and his unexplained heart-failure suffered after a week in hospital, but (Houseman) refuses to speak about the events in the woods.

A Raccoon Police Department spokesman stated that the force is 'pleased to see Houseman's improvement' and anticipates the day Houseman will be able to provide details regarding he and his wife's disappearance.

* * *

**Editorial Page, Raccoon Herald, August 6 1998**

**RPD overreacting to surviving STARS members' claims**

**Allison Greaves **

It is understandable that RPD policy makers have chosen to disband their elite STARS team after its six years in operation. For even though the team has had many successful and high-profile missions, most recently in assisting with the Twin Bridges siege in Montana, STARS has been largely considered unnecessary and a drain on the department's budget.

However, it is not only unfair, but illogical, to suspend the surviving officers on grounds that one or more may have leaked information to the press that Umbrella Pharmaceuticals had been conducting illegal experiments at the site of the Spencer Mansion, and that the explosion and cleanup was part of an elaborate cover-up.

Even if such allegations turn out to be untrue, to suspend without even a cursory inquiry seems to lend credibility to…

* * *

**AN. Okay, I know I made a few changes to the RE storyline here (points to AU disclaimer in summary). Basically, in my version, RE Zero never happens. That's right, fangirls, no Lieutenant Billy the bemulletted badass, and no adventures of James the giant leech. And no, fanboys, in 'my' RE, Rebecca does not kick any BOW ass. She's a medic, not John Rambo. **

**And I'm not even sorry.**

**Stay Tuned!**

**-C**


	30. Goodnight Irene

**Featured Listing. Arklay Lifestyles. September Edition.**

29 Rivercrest Road. Priced to sell!

Cute 950 sq. ft. Cape Cod in Raccoon City's Cider District. Located on a quiet street, large yard with a 12x8 deck, backing onto Memorial Park. Upgrades include shingles in 1992, flooring and furnace in 1994. The perfect home for a small family. Motivated seller, don't miss out.

* * *

**September 5 1998 Raccoon City**

There was enough evening sunlight for Irene to drive without headlights, but the streetlights and business signs were already lit. It was that half-hour of perfect brightness when every colour seemed more vivid, or perhaps more certain. The afternoon heat lingered, and the wandering locals were in good spirits. Their stride had a newfound summery jauntiness, and they were decked-out in their lively July clothing. The sidewalks were a wash of Hawaiian prints, tans and tropical pinks.

Irene cruised past the Emerald Avenue Dairy Queen. Cheerful neon and white fluorescent burned bright against the grounded sun. Young girls in cutoffs licked ice-cream from their boyfriends' cones and pranced between the parked cars like unbroken fillies. School started next week, and the youth were enjoying one last romp before fall-routine set back in. No doubt the RPD would be faced with its yearly brimful of Labour Day noise violations and public mischief complaints, but the sun had set on Raccoon City's Corrupted Summer, and the town was alive and heady.

Well, except for those who were still grieving lost loved-ones.

Irene wiped the thought away and pulled Rusty into the Crescent Road on-ramp. His valves hammered like typewriter keys, and he shuddered. She dropped five miles an hour and needed to downshift.

A quick check of the side-view mirror ensured she had swung wide enough to allow the trailer to clear. She sighed, depressed to see her entire life shoehorned into a twelve-by-eight U-Haul.

No turning back now.

She ground into fourth-gear; Rusty chugged ahead with a steam-engine's dogged persistence, and the speedometer needle began its slow sweep upward. It took a full minute to make an uneasy fifty-five. Raccoon City's familiar landscape flashed-by. To the right, the Big Sky travel plaza where she and Joe would get coffee and run radar. To the left, the Kubota dealership that had been broken-into last spring. Up ahead was the mile forty-seven highway marker where Lou Mancini pulled over that naked woman. All of it was familiar. All of it was tainted and ugly.

The road bent, and the sun highlighted the sandblasting on her windshield. She preferred travelling by night, even if it was a longer trip. There was less traffic, cooler weather, and the music was better. The eight-hour drive would deliver her in Baker Creek a half-hour early for breakfast.

Home, it should have instilled good feelings, or at least a nostalgic stir, but all Irene felt was overwhelming shame. The verdict screamed that she was unable to manage her life and needed to run back to family: twenty-four years old and still too weak to make it on her own.

She frowned and turned on the radio. The nine o-clock news wrapped-up a story on the re-opening of Victory Lake Campground and followed with the weather: partly cloudy with a thirty percent chance of thundershowers late in the evening. She would be in Idaho by then. Goodbye, grey skies. Raccoon City could rain all month for all she cared.

Raccoon City: that waterlogged little smoke-hole she had chosen to defend. It was no different than when she had arrived. The tailings fields still wept oxides into Victory Lake. People still turned left from the center-lane at Oak and Fisson. The Umbrella logo still budded from every billboard.

But given some consideration, it was all so different. The tailings fields didn't burn her eyes. Over a hundred drivers had been cited for making illegal left-hand turns and would know better. And Umbrella was no longer Raccoon City's benevolent Daddy Warbucks.

She snorted. Raccoon City's surface may have been unchanged, but the town was bound for some drastic alterations. It turned out their beloved Umbrella had less than pure intentions, and the company was well past-due for their day of reckoning. Two weeks after Forest's death, Chris Redfield, along with the other surviving STARS, paid her a visit. They told her about what they found in the Arklay Forest. They told her about the mansion, about the lab in the basement and the infected researchers. They showed her blood-soaked notes, a lab-tech's diary with a bullet-hole punched through it.

And she believed every word. Her attack in the woods, coupled with her fruitless search for Victor Yendrowich and Irons' stonewalling, was all proof she needed. Chris wanted her to help take Umbrella down. She laughed and asked him who in the police community would be dumb enough to believe anything a disloyal buddy-fucker said, especially when the story would be hard to believe from a credible source. The older STARS, Burton, suggested she help in other ways. There was evidence to be collected. There were justice officials to be contacted. They would find something for her.

In the end, she agreed to testify in any hearings against Umbrella and nothing more. She was an unconvincing speaker and ill-suited for their cloak and dagger skylarking.

Chris slammed both fists on her kitchen counter. Her dishes rattled, and her 'Twelve Months of Yellowstone' calendar jumped off its tack and tumbled to the floor. He accused her of letting Forest die in vain. He called her a spineless wimp, more interested in saving her own skin than seeking justice. He pointed a finger in her face and announced to the room that Forest deserved better than her.

And for once she kept the Olafson Anger chained-up. It only took two words, spoken with a measured voice, to explain how she wasn't avoiding the fight for her own benefit. How she had more than herself to think about.

Those two simple words, three syllables in total, and Chris' accusations tapered to dumbfounded silence. His eyes drew to the floor. He mumbled a sorry, re-hung the calendar, and limped outside for a cigarette. Jill Valentine shuffled her feet, cleared her throat and wished her good luck. The young medic covered her face and sobbed quietly. Burton put an arm around her and whispered something in her ear.

Forest was dead, and somehow that young thing survived. Irene had been full of questions. She insisted they tell her what happened to Forest. She could plainly see that Burton knew, but they refused to give her any specifics. All they would say was that he had died trying to save Alpha Team.

Only then did she let the Olafson Anger loose. She took a catcher's-step forward and grabbed Burton by his collar; her knuckles milled under his chin. She screamed at them, told them that she was still a cop. She could handle messy death. They had no right to keep anything from her. Forest was gone, and she needed to know how.

And of all people, mousy little Chambers matched her anger. She stepped in front of Burton with one hand on hip and one finger pointed, as if she were charading a storybook schoolteacher. She shouted to Irene that the details didn't matter. Forest died violently, horribly. What right did she have to make them live through it all again for no good reason?

"_Finding Forest was awful once." Burton mumbled into his beard._

Irene sighed and blinked the heaviness out of her eyes, determined not to cry again. That last time in Forest's apartment had been enough. She was helping his family pack up. His father -a pot-bellied and grey-haired replica of his Forest- opened a cupboard and found an open box of animal crackers. There were two fresh boxes behind it.

He turned to his wife and gave the box a shake.

_"Look at this, Adele. I guess the boy never did get over his love for these things."_

The crumbs had yet to settle into Forest's carpet before Irene burst through Valleyview Apartment's side doors with stupid tears leaking between her fingers. She knew Forest just over two years. They played baseball together. They ate together and shared a bed together, and she knew nothing about him. Even the trivial things like his ridiculous fetish for animal crackers were unknowns.

Irene felt tears coming despite her efforts, but her interest switched to a familiar black grille that poked out of the eastbound ditch. The sunset burnt off the patrol car's hood and cherry rack.

By the time she turned to her mirror, the cruiser was pulled onto the road. The back tires were spinning, flinging a coat of mud and grass onto an Umbrella fertilizer billboard. It muscled into her lane. She nudged her trailer to the right. It was right behind her.

"Just great."

The cop lit the overheads and gave the siren a little whoop.

"Shit."

She signalled right, coasted onto the shoulder, and set the hand-brake. So much for making a clean getaway. She rolled the window down and kept her eyes on the mirror. The trailer blocked most of the view. She couldn't make out the driver, but she was sure he was alone.

The cruiser's door swung open far too soon. The cop hadn't bothered to run her plates, meaning he either knew her, or he was an idiot. And with the RPD, either one was a possibility.

A moment later, a bald head emerged.

"Oh, just my luck."

Her hands choked the wheel, and she watched Joe Gutierrez step past the trailer and pull on his forage cap. He had his cop face on, and his right hand rested on his holster.

Irene grit her teeth and straightened her hair. Joe approached her door, standing slightly behind the B-pillar. It was a cop technique to keep clear in case the driver had a gun, instinct after this many years. Still, it stung her.

She stared straight ahead. "Joe…"

Joe leaned forward. He didn't bring his violation book. He was just wasting her time. "You know you've got a taillight burnt-out on your trailer?"

She matched his tone. Joe the cop meets Irene the cop. "You gonna cite me for it?"

"Would you pay the fine if I did?"

"No." She offered the smallest of smiles. "I'm skipping town. You'll never find me."

He returned her smile, but it was with the one he used for taking statements. Irene knew she had lost the privilege of seeing the partner side of Officer Gutierrez, and that stung too.

"Then I guess I won't. Just be sure to put a new bulb in before it gets any darker."

"Sure."

He leaned an arm on the window. "Brendo told me you didn't renew your contract. Said you were selling your place, too."

Irene nodded and jerked a thumb toward the U-Haul. "He told you right."

"Where you headed?"

She sighed. "Back home, I guess." The words left an acidic taste.

"Oh yeah? What's there to do in Wyoming? There can't be that many bars to clear out after closing. How are you gonna keep in shape if you can't toss around angry drunks?"

She chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many bars there are. There's not much else to do but drink."

"You gonna get on with one of the Sheriff's Departments?"

"I'll try the State Police first. But if I can't get hired by them I'll apply to the County Sheriffs and the Jackson PD. I'll do Department of Corrections as a last-resort."

"You'll do fine."

"Yeah, can you believe Irons and Findlay ended-up giving me a decent assessment?" She cringed at her own words and shied away from Joe's scowl. She shouldn't have brought up her snitching.

She lowered her voice. "They probably just wanted me gone."

Joe nodded. "The Chief has bigger problems now. Dan Munroe told me the Justice Department is prying into the Arklay Killings case. Irons is golfing buddies with the DA, but word says he's still sweating. And the press have been eating him alive over that STARS fuck-up. Mind you, having eight cops killed will-" Joe winced. "Ah,_shit_. Sorry. You don't need to hear that right now."

Irene shrugged. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry about Forest too. He was a decent guy."

She closed a hand around her stomach. "I know."

Joe's portable radio came alive, perfect timing. He turned, screwed a finger into his other ear, and answered the call. The scene triggered another regretful pang. She was watching her former partner clock-in for some routine police work, while she, the newly-minted civvie, was left on the roadside.

Well, she had done it to herself, and as much as it stung, it was the right thing to do.

Joe called a ten-seventeen, stowed his Motorola and turned to her. "Gotta go. Public works just fished a nice marshmallow out of the spillway gates. I guess it's attracting an audience." He laughed. "People are fucking sick."

He must have noticed her dismay, because he shrugged and added. "Meyer hasn't called a Henry code yet, so it's gonna be a drowning. Probably that missing guy from last week, Jenkins."

Irene nodded. "Probably."

He was already headed for his car, but he looked over his shoulder and waved an open hand. "Take care, Irene."

"You too, Joe."

Joe didn't bother with another look back as he hustled to his cruiser. He slammed the door and fishtailed toward town. Hot rubber wafted away, and his siren whined along the embankment walls. Officer Joe Gutierrez was gone much in the same way he came, and Former Officer Irene Lindstrom was once again working her Toyota along the highway.

Back to that hard-earned fifty-five, Irene checked her trailer. Raccoon City's smudged cityscape shrank in her mirror, nothing but an uneven slag-heap with giant billows of white smoke from the industrial park. Four years of her life hunched on that western horizon.

She sighed. A hair caught the breeze and tickled her bottom lip. She blew it away, but it returned and stuck to the upper.

"Get lost, already." She pinched it between two fingers, but before flicking it away, she stopped and glanced at it.

And her eyes stayed locked on that little hair. It was as long as hers, but darker, and slightly greasy.

She held a breath and rolled the hair between her fingers. She wore this jacket when they went to the Pendleton Rodeo. It must have been stuck to the collar for over a year. And now, it was one more memento of what she was leaving behind, of what was lost.

Rusty wandered toward the center-line, and a Camaro with an illegal muffler honked. She snapped her eyes to the road and pointed the truck straight.

But the hair refused to be ignored. It felt much heavier than a single hair ought to. The free-end brushed along her wrist and raised goosebumps. What was she supposed to do with it? It was ridiculous to hold onto a dead man's hair, but at the same time, it was impossible to let go. Lindstrom sentimentality, she supposed.

Irene flicked her eyes to the side-window, took a deep breath, and after a moment, allowed Forest's remains to blow back toward Raccoon City. If there had ever been a time for her mother's practicality it was now. Forest was gone: ashes on a Latham rooftop and hair on a jacket, nothing more. There was no sense clinging to the past. The old Army photos and the tiny collection of cells in her belly were all keepsake she needed. The Irene Lindstrom who hoarded dead men's trinkets had been left in Raccoon City.

At least, she hoped she had.

Because life was a struggle, and that struggle only got harder with every year. The weak buckled, and the strong found more strength in the challenge. It was one of those fundamental laws of nature her father had taught, even if he hadn't been able to fully understand it himself. And after fourteen years of self-doubt, Irene was able to differentiate between herself and Erik Lindstrom. Grief and guilt had caused her father to abandon his obligation as a parent. Irene would not do the same. She had known as soon as that second bar appeared in the test-kit's viewing window.

And so here traveled Irene Evelyn Lindstrom: her parent's daughter, born with her mother's thick waist and her father's height, blessed with her mother's fortitude, her father's humanity.

At least, that was what she was going to tell herself.

With a reassuring nod, she rolled-up the window and silenced the music, enjoying the highway's rhythmic howl. The transition from stop to highway-gear was always an ordeal for poor Rusty, especially with a loaded trailer, but once he was rolling he could make it from coast to coast without complaint.

Rusty bounced over an uneven expansion joint, and the instrument lights went dead. Irene frowned and whapped a fist against the dashboard in just that right spot. The lights returned, and she ran a gentle hand along the vinyl, as if to make amends for the reprimand. Rusty was beat to Hell, but he had a long life ahead of him. He would make it.

Irene tried a smile on. It didn't feel right, but she would get used to it.

Because if Rusty could make it, so could she.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

_The child woke to low female voices, both voices similar, both voices familiar. He blinked through the darkened bedroom and turned to the golden sash of light at the base of the door._

"_Is he still awake?"_

"_No. I put him to bed an hour ago. He should asleep by now."_

"_I'll go check, thanks again."_

_Foosteps creaked up the stairs, footsteps creaked to the door. He tucked his head under the sheets and turned to the wall. She worried when he was still awake when she got home._

_The front door squealed open. His bedroom door squealed open. Footsteps on the porch, footsteps in his bedroom. A truck-door slammed outside._

_He could hear her breathing in the room._

_A strong hand brushed his arm. He opened his eyes at an appropriate time._

"_Hey." She ran her fingers through his hair. "Are you still awake?"_

_He rolled over and rubbed his face. "I heard you come in."_

"_Come downstairs." She seemed more cheerful than usual, especially for after work. "There's something you need to see."_

_He was out of bed without the need for a second prompt. If it was this late and she wanted to show him something, it must be special. He was fully awake by the time his feet curled against the cold hardwood._

"_What is it?"_

_She smiled. "You'll see. Get your slippers, and put on my jacket. It's cold outside."_

_Her coat slipped over his shoulders. He sagged under the weight and ran his fingers along the polished brass buttons. It was fragrant with coffee and field dust._

_They descended into the front hall together. His small hand completely swallowed by hers. He could feel her calluses, soft but thick, like the pads on a cat's paw._

"_Close your eyes, and don't open them until I tell you to."_

_He piqued with an electric twinge of excitement but complied readily. The door groaned open; he was ushered ahead._

"_Watch your step."_

_Gravel crunched under his slippers. The evening chill sparked a shiver, and he retreated farther into her jacket. Frogs sang to each other from the dugout across the yard. A tractor-trailer whooshed along the highway._

_They walked thirty-seven paces. Wet grass kissed his ankles._

"_Alright, open your eyes, and look up."_

_He obeyed with eager haste, and immediately tipped backward, disoriented. She had been prepared for the reaction, because she already had a hand on his shoulders. His eyes adjusted, and he recalibrated himself, now assured that it was not he who was falling, it was the world itself that seemed to be tumbling toward him. From East to West, the white pinpricks that dotted the evening sky had come unscrewed from their sockets and plunged earthward as wraithlike_ _tails traced their flat trajectories._

_He shook his head. His mouth hung wide. "What is it? Why is it doing that?"_

She chuckled and gave him a little shake_. "Meteor shower. There's bits of rock in space, and when they get too close to us, they burn up."_

_He didn't want to look away for fear that the otherworldly show would be over when he returned. As if whoever was charged with its production had decided that he had been granted a sufficient dose of amazement. "It's like fireworks."_

_She didn't answer, but after a moment said, "they say you can make a wish when you see one."_

_He followed a large streamer toward the horizon. It disappeared behind the old barn._

"_Really."_

"_Mmm hmm."_

"_Will you make a wish too?"_

_She brushed his hair in place._

"_Will you?"_

_She blinked, and then shook her head._

"_Why not?"_

_He turned to her, hoping the show would still remain once he was able grant it his full attention. Her head was tilted to the stars. Silver light shone off her nose and cheekbones as she smiled. She put an arm around him and pulled him close. They watched in silence as above them, the alien flotsam -perhaps fragments of a planet where, ages ago, a mother and son had also stared at the falling sky- consummated its galactic migration with an iridescent flourish._

**AN. All RIGHT! Finished with this story. Honestly, I never thought it would end. Hopefully you all enjoyed this last chapter (and previous ones). Know that your readership has helped me greatly.**

**To my reviewers, past and present: Thank you so very much, not only did your feedback motivate me, but it also helped shape this story. Alyssa Ashcroft wouldn't have made an appearance if not for Ciel Noir. Joe Gutierrez would have needed a different excuse to be transferred away from Irene if Artistic Masochist's Liv Tremmain hadn't been suspended. Clive Havel wouldn't have made his cameo without Chaed's feedback.**

**And, of course, to Maiafay and enRAGEd who's detailed and honest feedback helped make me a better writer. Eternally grateful.**

**To my subscribers and favouriters: Thank you for thinking my story was good enough to follow. I hope I didn't disappoint.**

**And to all the others who enjoyed Corrupted without offering feedback. you suck! LOL. I'm just kidding. Thanks so much for reading, even if you don't comment; I'm writing this story to be enjoyed, not to have my considerable ego inflated. So I hope I have sufficiently entertained you. I am grateful for your attention.**

**Ah who am I kidding, Leave a review. It would make ol'cjjs a happy guy.**

**And along with Officer Lindstrom, I too will be leaving Raccoon City for a while. I am taking the summer off writing, and will be writing some original fiction in the fall. HOWEVER, you can expect a few oneshots from me, and I'm in the works of writing a co-op piece with enRAGEd. It will be about the tragic Trevor family, and their dealings with the twisted and evil Ozwell Spencer.**

**Here's a sneak peek.**

* * *

Spencer didn't look up as his secretary ushered George into the office. There was no gushing salutation, no glad-handing or offered drink. He had always found the fanfare and pomp of moderate celebrity tiresome, but to be deprived of it, so suddenly and so completely, was unsettling. It felt as if some fundamental step in the greeting process was missed. He wondered if he should call attention to himself, but he already felt exposed by the room's grandeur, and his host's apparent comfort in it.

Spencer snapped his broadsheet - today's Financial Times - and sipped a cup of black tea. He tut-tutted at an article and circled it with a tortoise-shell fountain pen.

At least if there had been the tick of a clock it would have measured each aching second he lingered. As it stood, all he could rely upon to toll the passage of time was the reedy whistle of Spencer's rhythmic breathing.

George cleared his throat. The noise echoed. He felt the urge to straighten his tie.

"There is no need to stand on ceremony, Mister Trevor. Please sit down." His voice was like the recording of an earthquake played at half-speed. It was a voice of unquestionable authority best applied to some formidable statesman; Theodore Roosevelt came to mind. It certainly did not seem appropriate when married to this bent and sallow plutocrat.

All the same, George complied and settled into a Victorian Prie Dieu chair beside Spencer's own. It was placed at a flat angle, and he would need to keep his head turned to look his client in the eye.

Not much chance of that. The old man hasn't even looked up from his damn newspaper.

George's Herringbone jacket rasped against the chair's royal-velvet. Spencer tut-tutted and circled another article.

The chair was straight-backed and insufficiently padded. Even as he settled into its unnatural geometry, his lumbar began to protest. He shook a cigarette from its carton and popped it into his mouth. The filter wicked moisture from his bottom lip and stuck there.

Spencer sipped his tea. There was a hint of spice to it that reminded him of the Turkish workers he had hired for the Monte Cassino project.

He pulled out his Ronson and checked the side-table: an Africanesque scrimshaw of a man reaching to the sky, a recent medical journal, a saucer cradling a thin-handled spoon.

"You are looking for an ashtray, Mister Trevor."

George glanced at his client. Spencer had folded the newspaper. His hooded eyes were fixed on the cigarette.

"Um, yes, as a matter of fact, I was..."

"You will not find one." Spencer sipped his tea, but kept his eyes on George. "I cannot countenance smokers. While you are in my employ, you will refrain from using any tobacco products. Though I am disposed to overlook eccentricities in gifted men, this is one habit I will not tolerate. Do you find this acceptable?"

The cigarette dangled from his lip. With a quick swish of herringbone on velvet, he slipped it back into pocket, along with the lighter.

That question only had one answer. "I suppose so."

"Splendid. You understand, of course. When one is afflicted with malignant tumors in the lungs, it serves to heed the words of physicians."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"Nor did I expect you to. But that is a past matter. Hardly of any concern now. I trust you have some inkling why I have summoned you."

Summoned. Like a genie. Your wish is my command.

"I am an architect. And you are a very wealthy man. I assume..."

"...that I require your expertise for a project that flatters both my vanity and inflated sense of self-importance. You are a very astute man. Unlike your previous clients, however, I have …ah …needs that you may find to be excessive. I intend for this project to be worthy of my wealth and my station."

The rich were contrary animals. They hated flattery when it was blatantly false, and adored it when it was subtle. The trick was in petting their specific brand of ego without making it obvious. And Spencer sounded like he had a flair for self-deprecation. It was time to make an impression, and so he played the odds.

"Money and titles alone don't make great men."

Spencer steepled his fingers and eyed George without turning his head. A man that unhealthy shouldn't have been able to seem predatory.

"Spoken like a man who has neither, Mister Trevor," Spencer said, before his voice softened, "but well-spoken all the same."

George didn't sigh, but his next breath was relieved.

"Churchill once said that great and good are seldom the same man. I feel I tend toward the former."

George chuckled, but the pointed stare that came a few moments later stopped him dead. His nerves were getting to him. Laughing at Spencer's bad jokes wasn't going to cut it. He knew that already.

"You needn't feel obliged to humor me. I chose you for your eye and your mind, both of which, I am told, are brilliant. I did not choose you for your sycophancy. It is a discipline in which you fail to impress." He drained his cup and then reached for the intercom buzzer. "Would you care for a drink?"

* * *

**Okay, you like?**

**So that's all for me, for the time being. Have a lovely (hopefully not corrupted) summer, and I'll see you all in the fall.**

**You are all awesome.**

**-C**


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